A Status Quo Exile
by SaintDogStreet
Summary: James Kirk is brilliant and golden and, often times, a little crazy. These are just pieces of his life.
1. Inefficient

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything remotely related to the Star Trek franchise, or any other trademarks you may recognize._

_A/N: So, I was searching for inspiration the other day, and started having way too much fun with random word generators. _That _coupled with my desire to write something for a fandom I love to read but have yet to write about, produced _this. This_, to be precise, is going to be a series of random one-shots inspired by or incorporating the aforementioned random words. Some are barely not drabbles, and some are rather longer, so I'll throw the shorter ones together into one chapter. They won't all be in the same verse, some may be AU, some will be angsty, some will (hopefully) be funny, and some will probably be slightly crack. You can expect slash -- mostly Kirk/Bones or Kirk/Spock. And since I absolutely adore James T. Kirk, and tend to show my adoration by smashing characters over the heads repeatedly with two-by-fours, you can expect lots and lots of Kirk angst. I'll post individual warnings on each chapter. To start us off, here's a little Jim and Bones academy days one-shot. _

_Title is taken from the Rise Against song "Survive."_

_Warnings: Profanity. I think that's it. Oh, it's possibly AU, since I can't think off the top of my head if they're still using measly little _cars_ at this time. And I'm totally milking the hospital regulations thing. Oh, and _mush.

_Enjoy:_

* * *

_Inefficient_

"Dr. McCoy?" The image on the screen flickered then steadied. A young man with light brown hair and a standard-issue medical coat scribbled something on what Bones guessed was a medical chart before looking back up at him. "My name is Dr. Kellion. I'm calling about your roommate, James Kirk?"

Bones set the textbook he'd been studying down carefully, resting his fingers lightly on top of it. He had a bad feeling.

"What is it? What's happened?" He barked.

"There was an incident, and Cadet Kirk was brought to our facility. We'd like to perform a procedure on him, but we're having some difficulty contacting his next-of-kin. If you could --"

"What _happened_?" McCoy interrupted.

"Ah," Kellion glanced down at the medical chart in front of him. "Something about a car accident? I'm afraid I can only release details to Cadet Kirk's next-of-kin, which, as I said, we're having some trouble locating."

"What's wrong with him?" Bones insisted.

The young doctor's gaze grew hard, and Bones saw that his irises were traffic-cone orange. "As I _said_, Dr. McCoy, I can only release that information to his next-of-kin."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Bones growled. "Who the hell is listed as his next-of-kin?"

"Ah, a Mr. Jablome." Kellion said. "Haywood Jablome."

Bones stared.

"I'll be there in five minutes," He finally snapped, thanking whatever God was up there that as a medical student his dorm was strategically located close to the hospital. "Try not to get any stupider between now and then."

"Dr. McCoy!" Kellion protested, but Bones was already out the door.

Exactly five minutes later, Bones burst in through the hospital doors, sending a handful of nurses scattering in fear. He stormed up to the information desk and demanded Kirk's whereabouts, drumming his fingers impatiently on the counter as the wide-eyed receptionist looked up his roommate, wishing that idiot Kellion had given him more information so he could deduce where they were keeping Jim on his own. Finally, he managed to decipher the receptionist's stuttering answer and stalked to the Accident & Emergency ward.

He was in the process of yanking open bed-curtains to see if Jim was behind them when just the person he needed to yell at called out his name.

He whirled around, and there was Dr. Kellion.

"Dr. McCoy!" The young doctor gasped. "I must insist that you stop--"

"And _I_ must insist," Bones snarled. "that you tell me where the hell my best friend is."

The insufferable doctor drew himself up with a huff. "Dr. McCoy, I have explained more than once that I can only give sensitive details out to a patient's next-of-kin, which is why I requested your help to contact Mr. Jablome so that Cadet Kirk could receive treatment --"

"It's a fake name!" Bones growled.

"What?" Kellion said, baffled.

"It's a fake name, for Christ's sake, you orange-eyed bastard! It's fake! And to answer your question, no, no I would not!" Bones yelled.

"What?" Kellion repeated, blinking.

"There is no _Haywood Jablome!_" McCoy cried. "Sound it out, dammit!"

Kellion's mouth opened into a soundless 'o.' McCoy could _see _the wheels turning in his head.

Finally, the doctor managed to pull himself together. "Under the circumstances, it seems we'll have to postpone Cadet Kirk's treatment until a family member can be contacted."

"What's _wrong_ with him?" McCoy asked.

"Dr. McCoy --" Kellion began.

Bones cut him off. "No, listen up. I don't want to hear any idiotic excuses about how I can't know what's happening to my best friend because the moron has trust issues as wide as Texas and decided to use an important medical form as a cheap prepubescent joke. What I _want_ to hear is exactly _what_ happened to him and _what_ the hell is wrong with him now?"

"Because it sounds to _me_," Bones continued, when it looked like Kellion was stupid enough to protest further. "That you are about to refuse a member of Starfleet appropriate medical attention because of some chicken-scratch on a legal form. I don't know how the hell you got through medical school when it's apparent that most speed limit signs have bigger numbers than your IQ, but for the first time in your miserable career I want you to straighten up and act like you took a fucking oath to _save lives _and tell me _what the hell is going on."_

Kellion was shaking. Literally shaking. Bones felt a little proud.

"Okay," The doctor with the DayGlo-orange eyes breathed out. "Okay. Follow me."

Kellion wove through the Friday night hospital rush and lead Bones to a small room buried in the ER. Kellion shut the door behind them, and Bones was ensconced in the familiar sound of a softly whooshing machine helping someone breathe.

Jim was laid out on the only bed in the room, far, far too still. The way he was posed on his back made Bones think of funerals, because Jim was never this contained. He was always moving or sprawling out or twisting himself up in ridiculous-looking positions in his sleep.

Bones touched him, gently, resting a few fingers on his arm. Jim didn't move.

The skin on his arms and face and everywhere else Bones could see was splotched with deep, night-dark purple, and a thousand tiny nick and scrapes were filled with darkly-dried blood. Clean, new bandages were wrapped around what Bones could assume were the larger injuries. There was a plastic mask attached to his face, and Bones could see it fog and clear in turns as Jim breathed.

And his eyes...

There were more white bandages wrapped around his eyes, and Bones could only imagine what lay beneath.

"What happened?" He whispered hoarsely, fingers grazing down Jim's skin. _Fuck_, Bones traced, and _Shit_ and _Goddammit_ and _Don't you dare_.

Kellion cleared his throat nervously, scanning the medical chart. "According to the paramedics who brought him in, it looks like a drunken driver ran a red light and crashed into his car."

"Jim doesn't have a car," Bones said dumbly, writing _Bastard _and _Stay with me_ on Jim's skin with his fingers. "What about his eyes?" He demanded,

Kellion shifted. "In the course of his accident it appears that something glass broke and injured Cadet Kirk's eyes. We've picked out most of the shards, but he's sustained heavy damage." He cleared his throat. "It's highly unlikely that Cadet Kirk will retain his sight."

Bones' fingers dug into Kirk's unresponsive skin without him realizing it. If Jim couldn't see... if Jim couldn't see, than most of his opportunities at Starfleet would be lost to him. Not only that, but Jim Kirk's entire world was built on living fast and movement and _colour_. Bones hadn't ever thought it was possible to break James T. Kirk.

But this might come close.

"There is a procedure," Kellion continued carefully. "It's still in the testing stages and there's no guarantee it would work, but it would greatly decrease the odds of partial or complete blindness."

Bones' head snapped up. "Do the procedure," He said hoarsely. "Why haven't you done it yet already?"

"As with any experimental procedure, we need the express permission of the patient or the patient's next-of-kin before we can perform it, due to the risks involved." Kellion explained.

"Jim doesn't have a next-of-kin," Bones said bluntly. "He filled in a request for oral sex on that line, in case you've forgotten!"

Kellion's expression was sour. "I remember. Under these circumstances, the hospital cannot afford to do the procedure."

"What do you mean they can't afford it?" Bones demanded. "Jim can't afford for them not to do it! He'll go _blind, _dammit_."_

"It's technically an elective procedure. And we need permission --"

"_I _give you permission!" Bones interrupted.

Kellion's voice was flat. "I'm sorry, Dr. McCoy, but --"

"Fuck you!" Bones raged. He stepped forward, shocked by the sudden coldness he felt when his hand flew off of Jim's arm. He snagged Kellion by the collar and slammed his back into the wall. "I'm his best friend! I'm his _only_ fucking friend. I'm the person who cares about him most in the entire goddamn universe! Just because some fucking piece of paper doesn't have my name on it..."

"Dr. McCoy!" Kellion cried. "I am going to have to have you removed by security!"

"Do the fucking procedure!" Bones roared.

Kellion yanked himself out of Bones' grip and slammed his palm onto a small button near the door. An instant later a group of brawny men in security uniforms burst into the room, seizing McCoy by the arms when Kellion pointed and hauling him out despite his protests.

Just before the door slammed shut in front of him Bones got a full view of Jim, still lying deathly still, chest rising mechanically, Georgia-sky-blue eyes swathed in bandages, already blind to the world.

Very quickly McCoy was outside of the hospital in the damp night air, breath rising in clouds of steam as he panted. He'd been informed that while his behavior would be excused at the moment due to the stressful situation of his roommate's accident, he would not be allowed back into the hospital until he'd _calmed_. Furthermore, he was in danger of losing his own position at the hospital, and potentially his entire Starfleet career, if he persisted.

Bones resisted the urge to slam his fist into the wall.

For a moment he raged silently, cursing Kellion and the anonymous drunken bastard who'd done this and Starfleet and Jim and anyone else he can think off. The stars were cold and bright above him, and it hit him in a sudden, over-whelming wave of despair that Jim would never see the stars as close-up as he'd drunkenly told Bones he'd always wanted too.

And McCoy didn't know what to _do._

He was just a doctor, dammit. He was just a best friend. He was just _hopeless._

Except, no. McCoy couldn't afford to be hopeless.

An idea occurred to him, hit him like lightning. It was unexpected and crazy and it _just might work_, and Bones had a sudden flash of realization that Jim must feel like this all the time.

He shook it off and got down to business, pulling out his communicator.

"Patch me into Admiral Pike," He demanded in a voice that couldn't be argued with. "Tell him it's an emergency."

* * *

It took a long time for McCoy to be taken seriously enough to actually get in contact with the Admiral. Things moved rather quickly after that, though, because Pike wasn't about to let his protégé be crippled, and he was rather appalled by the way Starfleet Academy Hospital had been operating. Some people were definitely getting ripped a new one. Bones only hoped a certain smug orange-eyed son-of-a-bitch was among them.

Jim got his procedure all right, and his doctor -- a new one, of course, a rather pretty thing with bone-straight black hair that McCoy rather enjoyed talking with -- declared that he had a forty percent chance of full recovery of his sight. It wasn't exactly odds Bones would've like to gamble with. But it was _Jim_, so when the bandages were removed and Jim blinked in the bright fluorescents, Bones knew he shouldn't be surprised.

A while later, and Jim was still in the hospital but well enough to begin demanding his release and plotting escape plans, and Bones was taking his lunch break in Jim's hospital room. Jim had long since swiped Bones' cookie (which, if Bones was honest with himself, he only bought because he knew Jim loved chocolate chip) and was nibbling on the edges, bitching about the quality of hospital food.

Bones waited until Jim had a full mouth before producing a stack of legal forms from his bag and slapping them on Jim's bed, hard enough that the edges of the pages curled up a little, as if in fright.

"Whaff dif?" Jim asked around the mouthful of cookie.

Bones translated that without any effort. "_This_," He snarled, "is the nice stack of new forms you're going to need to update the contact sheet in your medical file."

Jim swallowed. "What for?" He asked curiously. Bones felt his blood turning to slush in his veins with sudden cold.

"What for? _What for?_ You idiot! It's so stuck-up infant doctors with the IQ of processed cheese don't have to scramble around trying to find poor little Jimmy's great-uncle _Haywood Jablome_ while I watch them repeatedly run their heads into walls." Bones shouted.

A small smile graced Jim's lips. "Oh, yeah. Haywood. That was a good one."

"A _good one_?" Bones repeated incredulously. "Jim, no one's found that joke funny in the last four hundred years." Then he shook himself, before he could be drawn further down the whirlpool of Jim's kind of thinking. "And that's not the point! The point is, you need to have some relevant contact information so that important decision regarding your health can be made."

Jim opened his mouth, and Bones could just _see_ the flippant statement that would come next forming on his tongue. "Dammit, Jim! You don't get it, do you? You were going to go _blind_. Blind, Jim. That means your Starfleet career would be _over_. All those things you like to do? All those people you like to do? Gone. You couldn't drive a car on your own, let alone command a starship. Everything you'd ever wanted would be taken away from you, and you couldn't even see it coming. _And all I could do was watch."_

Bones' heart twisted up and _hurt_ in a way that shouldn't be medically possible when he thought about Jim, his Jim, living in a world without seeing Georgia-sky-blue or sunshine or beauty or _stars_.

Bones squeezed his eyes shut hard, breathing in harshly through his nose. When he opened his eyes, he found Jim staring at him, taken aback by the unexpected force behind his friend's emotions.

"But, Bones," Jim said in a small, confused voice. "Who am I supposed to put down? My dad's dead. My mother wouldn't come. Frank?" Jim gave an unhappy laugh. "He'd tell 'em to pull the plug if I had a _hangnail_. And I haven't talked to Sam in years."

"I don't have anybody," He said quietly, hands fisting in the sheets.

Bones stared at him. "You _idiot_. You absolute, colossal, thick-headed _idiot. _Dammit, Jim." He rested a hand on Jim's shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the thin hospital gown. Jim looked up at him with those Georgia-sky-blue eyes.

"You've got me."


	2. Utopia, Wolf, Cognition

_Disclaimer: Non._

_Warnings: Profanity, slash, melodrama._

_A/N: Thanks to those of you who reviewed. Some random tidbits now:_

* * *

_Utopia_

Vulcan is gone, his planet imploded in fire and darkness and inexorability.

The coarse red sands and hot wind and burning sunlight that beat down are gone, forever.

It's his home, the only home he's ever known. And it's been taken from him.

The only planet he would gamble to call paradise is destroyed, and he was so sure he'd never get anything like it back. It was simply irrational to hope.

But now, as Kirk beckons to him in the darkness, eyes liquid and shadowed with lashes and bright, he discovers that he has found a second Eden.

* * *

_Wolf_

Kirk reminds Uhura of a wolf, lean and quick and dangerous.

He is predator, certainly, and he is frighteningly excellent at killing.

And sometimes he scares Uhura, when his quick-silver eyes spark like starlight and fire and he makes spur-of-the-moment, life-or-death, God-help-us decisions.

Sometimes the captain scares Uhura, with his sharp-teeth and his cunning and his battle scars, yes.

But not very often.

Because if Kirk is a wolf, she supposes she can drag the metaphor out a bit more, which makes the crew of the _Enterprise_ his pack.

And Kirk is fiercely defensive of his pack.

* * *

_Cognition_

It's not like Leonard didn't know Kirk was smart.

The kid he had thought he would never see again after that first shuttle ride had somehow managed to squirm and wriggle his way into Leonard's life before he realized it, insisting on calling him 'Bones' and dragging him on stupid, risky escapades and all-in-all turning the quiet life he had hoped to lead upside down, and then spinning it around a few times and pushing it in a kiddie pool full of jello for good measure.

But Leonard knew that despite the stupid pretty-boy jock exterior Jim went through the day wearing, the kid was insanely smart. Some of the crazier escapades were down right genius, and Kirk blew through his classes like all Starfleet was teaching him was finger-painting.

By this point, he had stopped being surprised when Kirk did the impossible before Leonard had even managed to recover enough from his hangover to find the coffee pot.

Leonard _knew_ Kirk was smart. But sometimes the kid was an _absolute moron_.

Like when he thought he could win a fight, seven to one. On more than one occasion.

Or when he seemed to think that he could help _every_ sob story they happened to stumbled across.

Or how he apparently operated under the delusion that he wasn't worth his weight in shit.

Or how he hadn't seem to figure out, that after all this time, Leonard wasn't going anywhere.

Or, Leonard thought, as he dug the heels of his hands into Jim's chest, how the stupid bastard couldn't even figure out how to _breathe._

Jim's eyes fluttered open with a cough and a heave and a gasp.

When Leonard was sure his best friend wasn't about to keel over again he grabbed him by his Starfleet-issue undershirt and shook him.

"You idiot!" He cried. "You absolute, dim-witted, stupid, brainless, _moron!"_

"Bones, it worked, didn't it?" Jim protested lightly, breathless.

Bones' fingers crawled over Jim's shoulders until his hands were on his back and his arms were wrapped around Jim and then he pulled him close. Jim stiffened in the hug and then relaxed, arms tentatively sliding up to return the embrace.

Bones was breathing hard, face splotchy, and he didn't really give a shit about macho-ism or his reputation or anything else right then. He could feel Jim's heart beating, steady and strong.

"You dumbass," He continued. "You shit-brained, stupid idiot. Genius my _ass_."

Jim laughed weakly, fingers twisting in Bones' uniform.

"So, Bones," He asked quietly. "What does that make you?"

_

* * *

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_Reviews appreciated.  
_


	3. Springtime

_Disclaimer: Nein._

_Also, I quote T.S. Eliot's wonderful _The Hollow Men_ at one point._

_Warnings: Profanity, violence, and sensitive themes -- Frank and Tarsus. You get the idea. Dark._

_A/N: I wanted to write something where Winona Kirk wasn't an awful mother. So I did._

_Two uploads in one day -- these are really, really, really fun to write._

_Thanks to the reviewers! Y'all rock.  
_

_Have at it:_

_

* * *

_

_Springtime_

There are a lot of things in Winona Kirk's life that she'll never regret.

_Marrying George when she's young, so young, too young, standing there in white with a fistful of flowers and George's lips soft against hers and promises and forever stretching into the horizon before them and loving George when they said she shouldn't and stitching George's uniform and her fingers bleeding as she pricks herself with the needle over and over and George bringing her thimbles and kisses, and Peter Pan should've known those were really the same thing all along, and mostly George, just George, George..._

_Sam, Sam, her first boy, strong and quiet and dark and she thought she could never love them too much, George and Sam and their perfect little family..._

_Or her beautiful baby boy, born in darkness and emptiness and fire with his too-blue eyes and downy golden hair and how he looked like George, oh just like George, and sometimes it hurt to even look at him but it hurt more to be away..._

But there are some that she'd do anything to take back.

_Frank is not like George. He's nothing like George. George was a hero and brave and dashing and he rode a white stallion out of the sunset straight into her heart, and George was a fairytale and she should've known that there are no happy endings, just endings. George was a fairytale but Frank was _here_ and real and now. And Frank helped stand her on her own two feet and made her see dawn those times she thought the night would last forever..._

She marries Frank in the springtime, when the grass is soft and green just below her feet. And she's not sure if she should wear white, so she settles on a silky pale silver that rustles when she moves. The air is a little damp, and tastes clean when she breathes it in. They marry in the morning, in the sunlight, and Jim and Sam are solemn in their tiny dark suits. Sam doesn't mind Frank, who's put in an effort to get to know the boys, taking them fishing and teaching them baseball and doing all those things _(George)_ a father would do.

Jim is quiet though, the entire ceremony. At the reception she finds him pushing his cake around with a fork, and it's chocolate, which she got because she knew it was his favourite flavour.

"Jimmy?" She asks quietly, kneeling down beside him in her silver dress. "Are you okay, baby?"

Jim doesn't say anything, but she can see the questions in his eyes clear as the spring sunshine.

_Who is he? Why is he here? What's he doing in my life? Do you love him? Does he love me? Why are you doing this? Is he going to be my dad? What happened to dad? Why is dad dead? Why am I here? Why is everything changing? What are we going to do now?_

"Jim," Winona says, brushing her son's golden hair gently back around his ears. "It's going to be alright."

Jim looks up at her, then, with his springtime sky eyes. "Promise?" He asks.

She smiles. "Promise." She says, looping her pinky around his and shaking it.

Winona regrets breaking her promise.

Winona regrets marrying Frank.

_Sometimes his eyes are dark, dark, so dark, when they look at her when they look at her boys and sometimes at night she hears George saying in his sweet quiet voice Why Winona why are you doing this what have you done and sometimes Frank is too rough and sometimes he is too loud and sometimes she is afraid but she loves him oh how she loves him and he loves her and he is good with her boys so good and he loves them she knows he does he must he has to..._

Things start off well. The honeymoon is nothing more than a night in a hotel room with champagne and silk sheets, because there's no one to watch Sam and Jim for more than a day. Frank kicks up a bit of a fuss but quiets when he sees that she's serious.

Frank is good for them. He fixes up the farm, which, Winona will admit when she wrestles her pride to the ground, has seen better days. The crop production doubles and the cows are fat and everything runs smooth as silk. He fixes things she didn't even know where broken, little things she's learned to live with because there were always more important things, there was always Sam and Jim.

The years go by quickly, Winona finds, and she tries to hold onto them but they slip through her fingers like water or sand or the beams of sunlight she tried to catch when she was a little girl.

Winona loves Starfleet and she hates it. Hates it because it took away her George, her husband, her life. But she loves it because in Starfleet she gets to see the stars, gets to go on adventures, gets to discover and create and learn.

And she loves Starfleet, she has to love Starfleet, because as much as Frank has fixed up the farm it's Starfleet that's putting food on the table. It's Starfleet that's keeping her kids in school and keeping them fed and keeping them alive, even though it's Starfleet that's keeping her from seeing them.

Winona spends more time off-world than she does in Iowa, and she can see it taking a toll on her children.

She worries. She always worries. And nowadays, she worries about Frank.

She loves the man she married, but sometimes she doesn't recognize him.

But when Frank comes even _close_ to being too hard on her children, Winona stops him. The rare times Winona has caught him acting out of line, she hauls him behind closed doors and chews him out. She has always made the rules very clear. They're her rules, but he _will_ obey them.

Or else he can leave, she explains.

Frank always learns. He always apologizes. And he always promises not to do it again. Winona could care less for his promises, all that matters is that he keeps them.

Once, and only once, Frank sullenly asks her whose side she's on.

Theirs, she informs him flatly. Her children's. Always.

And that is the end of that conversation.

But Winona can't be there all the time.

She questions her children. Has he ever hurt them? Touched them? Made them afraid? Has he ever done _anything_?

And the answer is always no, no, no.

Winona will always regret that she didn't question them harder. That they were too afraid to trust her.

_Her babies, her sweet little babies, and she can never really believe that they're growing up or growing away, but they _are_, and Sam is rebelling and sometimes even little Jimmy is and she does all she can really she does because she could never do anything less and she loves them, oh how she loves them so much it hurts, and they love her back and that makes it worth it..._

She is off-planet, of course, when it all snowballs into calamity.

Besides Frank fixing up the farm, he's fixed up her car, too. The thing had grown dusty and rusty in the garage, but Frank makes it shine and run like new.

The car was how she had met George, blazing along the country streets. Winona was always the fast one, the wild one, George the shy boy she charmed with her fire. The car had been hers.

She had promised it to her sons, once they were old enough. Sam hadn't wanted it, saying he had no use for silly out-dated technology. Her heart had hurt a little, at that, but she understood her children. And Sam had squeezed her hand and smiled and said thanks anyway.

Jim, though. Jim looked at that car like it could drive him to the moon.

He coveted the thing. She would catch him, late nights, after she'd already put him to bed, sitting in the driver's seat. He loved it, loved the idea of it, loved the thought of racing over the earth like he owned it.

Whenever Winona was on-world, she tried to make sure she took her son for a drive in it, going as fast as she dared with her precious child on board. Jim would laugh and the sunlight would shine on him, and he would smile at her in a way that made her heart glow.

She was supposed to be on-world, that day. That fateful, damned, godforsaken day. It was only an accident that delayed her from going home. A twist of fate, and Starfleet required her presence, and she was forced to stay a little longer than she had planned.

At any rate, Winona wasn't there the day Sam (_Johnny, he was Johnny then, he'd changed his name after some rock and roll hero and insisted everyone call him Johnny, though he would always be Sam, her Sam, to Winona) _ran away.

Winona wasn't there the day Jim almost killed himself.

Winona would always regret that she wasn't there that day.

Sam, Johnny, whoever he was trying to be that day -- he walked out of their step-dad's house.

But Jim raced out of it.

Sam just wanted to be gone, and Jim had flown by him in Winona's car, eating up the old dirt roads and sending the wheat fields ducking for cover as he flew by.

Frank had called the police on him. The cops had chased her baby boy down.

And then that car had gone flying off that cliff, almost taking her son with it.

_Flying, she was flying, she remembered being young and fast and George in the passenger seat beside her and then Jim, laughing, wonderful Jim just as wild as she was, the Iowa fields gold around them the sky so blue the springtime air flooding in through the open windows and everything free and beautiful and glorious..._

Sam had called her just before the cops did. He was crying, and it was the first time she'd heard her teenaged son cry in a long, long time.

She knew something terrible had happened.

Between Sam's choking sobs and the police's dry report, she had known enough to tell her Starfleet chief to go fuck himself, and raced all the way back to Iowa.

"Where's my son?" She demanded when she banged open the rickety door to her house. The door was a lot sturdier since Frank had fixed it, but not sturdy enough to withstand her rage. Sam, she knew, was staying with friends in the city. It wasn't him she was looking for.

"He's in the county pen," Frank had muttered from his sunken seat in the armchair, bronze beer bottle catching the sunlight in his hand.

Jail. Her little boy was in jail. That bastard had left him in jail.

She would deal with him. Oh she would. Later. First she had a son to find.

She bullied the employees at the county jail into submission rather quickly, and very soon her son was in her arms.

"Oh, Jimmy," She whispered, pulling him close and just feeling his tiny warm body and the steady thump of his heart. Jim was stiff in her arms, eyes shadowed. She knew her son well enough to tell when he was scared, even when he was trying to be brave.

There were bruises on Jim's chest that didn't come from gravel but from fists, she would find.

Starfleet trains all of its employees in basic self-defense, and Winona had always enjoyed the rush of a well-connected punch.

She kicks Frank's ass six ways to Sunday, enjoying every strike and blossoming bruise, and throws him bodily from her home. Jim, silent and bandaged, just stares.

_Hit hit hit hurt make him feel pain make him feel just a little bit of what her sons must have felt he hurt her children he _hurt her children_ he would pay he would suffer he would hurt she would make him regret..._

Winona will always regret not doing that sooner.

"It's going to be okay, Jimmy," Winona promises, gathering him in her arms.

She still needs Starfleet, of course, but they still need her, too. Winona is willing to compromise. Her next assignment is long-term and on a family-friendly planet, a budding new space colony on the infant Tarsus IV. She takes her two sons with her, not to start their life over, but just to keep it going.

Winona would regret the move.

_Tarsus IV is beautiful and lovely and green and the air is sweet, the bright-coloured birds sing pretty songs and mimic tunes she recognizes and every day is like springtime..._

Of course it all blows up in her face.

Her children start to go hungry, and Winona does whatever she can to keep them alive. She sells everything they own and when she has nothing left she sells herself. When things get really bad, Winona is willing to fight and kill and do whatever it takes to keep her children safe.

_Hunger oh hunger how it claws at her stomach how it turns men into monsters and she watches her babies' cheeks grow sunken and their eyes grow dark and listens to their stomachs growl late at night and how she has to watch them suffer watch them cry watch them die and how it hurts..._

Sam goes first.

They have been running, running for so long, and Winona has been keeping them alive on the tough roots of wildflowers not affected by the virus. They live like wild and feral animals, sometimes, but they live.

And then they take her son away from her.

_Death death death all around her death it's in the water a springtime of death everyday every second she watches someone die and hopes and prays and fights that it's not her sons and oh god oh god it is..._

She hears him screaming, first. Winona always tries to keep them together, makes sure they never separate, but somehow, someway, they are lost in the light springtime rain.

The world is gray and misty but Winona doesn't need to see to follow the sound. She hides Jim away in the wildflowers, tells him to keep quiet and still no matter what and if she doesn't go back he is to run and run and go exactly where she told him to. There is an abandoned Starfleet bunker, not that far away, where they should be safe. If Winona can't get to it she makes sure Jim knows that he can. Jim is a survivor, tough and strong like George, and she prays to every God that she can think of that he will be alright.

Winona follows the sound of Sam's screaming. She tears across the field of wildflowers, crushing the delicate bright petals below her running feet.

Through the drizzling rain she can see a man crouched over Sam, her son fallen like a dead bird on the ground.

She alights on the man with a savage scream, pulling him off of her son and tearing into his skin with her nails. She bites and kicks and punches and the man falls beneath her. She can see the terror in his eyes as she beats him down, until her fist smashes into his face and it crumples beneath her agony. Her hands are wet in his blood.

Finally, panting, she tears herself off of him and goes to her son.

Sam is lying on his back in the dirt, eyes shifting back and forth. There is blood in his mouth, spilling out over his lips.

There is a knife on the ground, and Winona almost falls on her face as she trips on it. She follows the trail of blood leading from the blade to her son's eviscerated stomach.

She drops to her knees beside him. Desperately, she tries to pull the sides of his split skin back together, stuffing his intestines back in with her hands. Sam only screams.

Her hands leave his gored belly, and instead she cups his face in them, leaving bloody tracks across his pale skin. The rain falls down, diluting the blood into a pale pink water that soaks into the soil.

"Sammy," She cries brokenly. "Baby."

Sam twitches and his mouth moves silently. A keening whimper skulks out of his parted lips, but he can't speak.

Her son, her baby, not yet a man and not still a child, dies on the ground next to her. The rain washes away her tears along with the blood.

Winona will always regret going back to Jim without his brother, the rain incapable of washing away all the blood still clinging to her hands.

_Sam Sam her baby her quiet one her world Sam who wanted to be somebody anybody somebody see me please just look at me _look at me _I see you Sam I love you I'm your mother I know who you are even when you want to be somebody else please Sammy baby please don't cry don't leave oh god Sam this is the way the world ends this is the way the world ends not with a bang bang put a gun against my head my baby's gone away but a whimper..._

She has nothing to live for now except for Jim, and she does whatever she can for him.

Of course, it's not enough.

There is horror and pain and terror in her son's life, stained in his eyes, now.

The days go on slowly, but they don't last forever.

Eventually she fails.

_Winona never believed in heaven, but she wants, oh how she wants so much that it aches, to see Sam and George again..._

Winona regrets that her son had to watch his mother die.

_She falls to the ground and she can't get back up and it hurts oh how it hurts it hurts so much like fire and broken glass and George dying and she sees her baby boy staring at her with deadened eyes screaming mother mother mother and that hurts even worse. She whispers I love you but she's not sure he can hear her and Jim oh Jim James, please, he touches her touches her skin and she can't feel him can't feel anything and it doesn't hurt anymore and his little hands come away covered in blood her blood why Jimmy I'm sorry I'm so sorry forgive me..._

Winona has a lot of her regrets in her life, so so many, but she will never regret that her son is alive.

_Springtime, and the sky is bright, and her son walks a survivor in a dead world. _


	4. Broaden, Flash, Graze

_Disclaimer: Geen._

_Warnings: Slash, innuendo, profanity._

_

* * *

__Broaden_

Jim makes him try new things, and at various points in his life Bones has found himself eating chocolate-covered grasshoppers, grilled Chalxi salamanders, deep-fried Diruvian monkey toes, and the bluish liver of some strange animal he never got the name of.

It's because of Jim that Bones has been sky-diving, ridden through narrow city streets on the back of a motorcycle at eighty miles per hour, spent an entire month living in a city underwater, and rode a thrashing, hump-backed bull with steam billowing out of its nostrils.

And it's _definitely_ Jim's fault that he's slept with a four-armed Kallian, an Elysion with rose-coloured irises and curling white hair, a forked-tongued Elapidi, and an insatiable starship captain.

Bones is proud of the fact that he's rather resistant to change, however, and he is fairly sure he's managed to keep any of Jim's attempts to broaden his horizons from _improving_ him, or any of that nonsense.

Until, of course, he finds himself encouraging Joanna to just _try_ the calamari, she might find that she likes it, and he realizes with annoyance that Jim has gone ahead and turned him into someone open-minded and adventurous and willing to try new things.

He's grouchy and bothered for the rest of the day, his mood barely salvaged by his daughter's presence and then gone straight to hell as soon as she's gone.

Of course, when Jim's tongue is doing that thing that Bones has never been able to figure out, and his fingers are curling in the bed sheets, and there's a golden-skinned blue-eyed starship captain smiling at him like he's just saved the entire fucking universe, he figures it's okay to broaden his horizons. Sometimes.

* * *

_Flash_

"What?" Jim demands. "Have you never seen a starship captain naked before?"

The bridge crew is staring at him. Or, well, _not_ staring at him.

Uhura runs her eyes over him once, up and down, like she's watching a yo-yo, then meets his gaze with a grin and a slightly glassy look. Chekov is staring into his control panel like he's suddenly realized all he's needed to prove Goldbach's Conjecture has been hidden there all along. Sulu finds the whole thing rather hilarious, and has his fist stuffed halfway in his mouth and is shaking with muffled, hysterical laughter.

(Jim isn't sure whether or not to be insulted by that, but figures the pilot's really laughing at everyone else and not him, and that's okay.)

Most of the crew-members Kirk isn't as good of friends with seemed to have designated the spot about six inches off from his left ear to be the only appropriate place to look. Of course, a few of them are just standing, flabbergasted, with their jaws on the floor.

Kirk makes a mental note to do some shuffling of positions, he can't afford to have people who freeze up in hard situations on his bridge.

Spock, naturally, remains completely unflustered, and only dryly remarks. "Captain, Starfleet has rather explicit requirements for proper uniforms, and this hardly follows the standardized dress code."

"Starfleet also says that it's a good idea for the Captain to get the bridge as quickly as possible when his whole ship is in danger of being blown up, Commander," Kirk snaps back.

Kirk immediately sets upon fixing the whole "ship being blown up" problem, and there are no more interruptions until Scotty comes in, an armful of hand-drawn plans flapping in the air as he runs.

He skids to a stop a few feet from the captain, mouth gaping, blueprints dashing to the ground.

"Holy shit, Captain!" He exclaims, and his eyebrows start to waggle.

An hour later, the crisis is adverted, and the bridge crew has mostly gotten used to the fact that the captain is naked.

Chekov still can't manage to speak anything but Russian or lift his eyes more than a foot from the floor, and a few of the ensigns had to be quietly removed (and Scotty, not so quietly), but otherwise, all is well.

Then McCoy stomps onto the deck, yanking a grinning Jim from his Captain's chair.

"Come on, Captain, you're needed below deck. And stop grinning like an idiot, it's nothing I haven't seen before," He rolls his eyes.

Jim follows the doctor out willingly, and a few dozen pairs of eyes watch him go. The doors slam shut behind them, and there is a collective sigh. Quite a few crewmen sink bonelessly into their seats.

"So, anyone want to tell me what just happened?" Sulu finally manages to stop his hysteria long enough to ask.

"As the captain explained," Spock answer smoothly. "Starfleet protocol dictates that the captain of the ship should make his way to the bridge with all haste when faced with conflict, especially when the circumstances are as potentially disastrous as the ones which we have just averted."

"Right, Commander." Sulu says.

"But why was he naked in the first place?"

* * *

_Graze_

"It's only a graze," Jim says cheerfully, clamping his hand down over the wound. Dark blood floods slowly over his fingers, like oil in the ocean, unnatural and dangerous.

Spock nods dubiously. Jim crouches and moves away from him, crossing the ground like a predator, low and swift and deadly.

He makes it a half-dozen yards before he collapses.

From here Spock can barely make out the spreading puddle of dark blood, surrounding Jim like a halo.

There's a spurt of phaser-fire that is swallowed up by the distended flames of an explosion, and Spock's not sure if it's statistically feasible for him to make it to Jim.

He does the calculations in an instant, thinks them over carefully, and finds the most logical answer. Then he throws it, as Jim would say, out the window.

The odds of him making it to Jim's fallen form are infinitesimally low.

He's going to do it anyway.

* * *

_Review. All the cool kids are doing it._


	5. Speed

_Disclaimer: Nyet._

_Warnings: Profanity. Pre-slash if you squint your eyes and tilt your head to the left. And I suppose you don't have to squint very much.  
_

_A/N: "Speed" is set in the same verse as chapter one's "Inefficient."_

_Thanks to those of you who reviewed!_

_Voila:  
_

* * *

_Speed_

After Jim gets blind-sided by a drunk driver one cold night and nearly ends up blind, McCoy starts keeping closer tabs on him than he would like to admit. Really, he was just taking his duties as next-of-kin seriously. And the cold ache of fear that welled up in him, the way spring water wells up in dirt if you dig deep enough, at the thought of Jim ending up flat and motionless in a hospitable room might have had a little to do with it.

Now, four months later, things are going just fine. Jim has mostly completely healed, he can spot a naked girl on a beach at a thousand yards, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and McCoy can't find Jim.

Granted, it's two PM on a Sunday afternoon, and last night when Bones had suggested lunch from that one Thai place and lounging on that one gray-sanded beach and nursing their inevitable hangovers, Jim had said he had plans.

Only, Bones is just starting to realize that all the "plans" Jim had hedged around didn't actually make a lick of sense when he was sober.

So now Bones is stalking around campus, pissing off people he really never intended to piss off as he tries to track down Jim's whereabouts. He's nowhere he should be (their dorm, the library), nowhere he would be (somebody else's dorm, a bar), and nowhere else it seems he _could_ be.

Bones is just about ready to give up in exasperation and just go back to the dorm and wait. Because Bones has learned that Jim is a lot like the scraggly, sad-eyed dog he used to have as a kid -- he likes to wander but he always comes home.

Besides, by this point he's just _annoyed_ at Jim, and if he goes home now it'll give him plenty of time to formulate the perfect rant for the occasion.

But just when Bones decides that the cadet with the slicked-back hair climbing into a muscle car is the last person he's going to ask Jim Kirk's whereabouts (and after that, Bones is going to have fun without him, see how he likes it), Slick replies, "Oh, yeah, Jim? Last I saw he was still working at the garage on 5th." and drives away.

Bones stands dumbly in the parking lot for a few minutes, not entirely sure what to do with this new information. Then, shaking himself, he does the only thing he _can_ do, and catches the next bus headed for 5th Avenue.

Unfortunately for Bones, there are two garages on 5th Avenue, and after being threatened with a wrench in the first one by a man who was large enough that Bones suspected he might actually be a car himself in disguise, he only has more irritation to heap on his growing pile.

Jim _better_ be in the next one, or else it's back to Plan B, going off and having fun by himself. Bones is pretty sure he can accomplish that rather nicely with a mostly-full bottle of bourbon. Something twinges inside of him, but Bones is positive that it's indigestion or heartburn or appendicitis, and not unhappiness.

Bones goes in through the open roll-up door in the shop, and waits until the closest man in blue coveralls is no longer holding a wrench of any kind before going up and asking him if he knows James Kirk.

Coveralls smiles happily, showing more gaps than teeth, and directs Bones through a door in the back.

Bones dodges a hail of sparks raining down from a welder and weaves around the eviscerated carcasses of a few ancient cars and passes through the door.

He's has never been crazy about cars, never felt his heart dance or sing or do anything ridiculous when he saw the archaic methods of transportation like some morons, but even he has to suck in a deep breath between his teeth when he's sees this one.

It's got curves like a stripper and isn't so much parked as _crouched_ on the pavement, like some kind of predator. Everything about it screams _man-eater_. It's candy-apple, lipstick, eat-your-heart-out red and it looks like it's proud to simply exist. The car has more ego than him, McCoy thinks, and he feels not so much as if he's looking at the car than as if the car's _letting_ him look at it. Like he needs permission.

Bones shakes himself, because that's _stupid_. But the car just sits there, pretty and feral and dangerous.

There's a soft squeak of wheels and Bones is suddenly aware that while he was spending so much time ogling a damn _car_, he should've really been looking under it.

Jim rolls out on his back from beneath the thing and climbs gracefully to his feet. His blond hair is tousled and his face is striped with sweat, and there's a dark smudge of engine grease on his cheek.

He grins at Bones, and Bones just barely recognizes it as his I'm-confused-but-I-intend-to-make-you-even-more-confused-than-me grin.

"Bones!" He greets cheerily. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Bones snaps.

"Uh, no, not really," Jim says, wiping his hands on the dull blue coveralls he's wearing. Of course, it's Jim, so he wears them like they're designer label, but whatever. "Seeing as how I work here, and it's a garage and you don't even have a car."

"You work here?" Bones asks, surprised. Starfleet cadets don't usually have jobs. Starfleet cadets don't _need_ jobs for one, seeing as how by agreeing to sign themselves up for dangerous, stupid missions in _space_ of all things, the organization kind of pays them back by giving them food and shelter and salaries.

Jim shrugs. "Well, I help out when I get a chance and Mickey, the owner, usually tries to pay me. Generally we just agree that I'll fix the things that need fixing and he'll let me take one of his babies for a spin." He pats the hood of the red car behind him affectionately.

"I didn't know you worked here," Bones says blankly.

"I like cars," Jim answers, and that isn't an answer, that isn't any kind of an answer, but then again, it hadn't really been a question.

"So, if you didn't know I worked at the garage, how did you end up here, anyway?" Jim asks, smiling. "What were you, stalking me?" He teases.

Bones blushes, dammit. He can feel the heat flooding beneath his cheeks.

Jim's smile widens, and he looks like a shark that smells blood in the water. "You were, weren't you?" He asks. "Aw, Bones, that's cute."

"Only you find the prospect of someone stalking you 'cute,' Jim," Bones grouses, still blushing. Jim only laughs.

"Come on," He says, walking up to Bones and linking his arm through his. Bones tries to pull away, because, dammit, there's a lot of engine grease on the kid, but Jim only tugs him along. "I'm due for a break about now."

They end up outside a coffee shop, Jim inhaling muffins like he's afraid they're going to issue a nation-wide ban on them anytime soon, and McCoy nursing a coffee hoping that it'll make the headache that's trying to fight its way into existence go curl up in a corner somewhere and die.

"You were in one of Mickey's cars that night, weren't you?" Bones asks, and there's no need to clarify which night he means.

"Yeah," Jim shrugs. "Poor guy felt terrible. Me, I felt bad about that Mustang I totaled."

Bones' hands clench on the table and he has to fight back the urge to yell something about how there were more important things wrecked that night than a _car_.

Jim stares at Bones' white-knuckled hands and doesn't say anything else. They pass that way in silence for a while.

"What kind of car was that you were working on?" Bones finally asks casually, breathing in the scent of his coffee drifting lazily through the salty air.

"She got to you, didn't she?" Jim asks around a mouthful of poppy-seed with a wicked grin. "That's Mickey's favourite child. She's a 1969 Corvette Stingray. About as classic as it gets."

Bones mumbles something about wasting money on worthless hunks of scrap-metal, but Jim can tell his heart's not really in it. His shark-grin only widens.

"When we go back, I'll take you for a spin," He promises.

* * *

Bones protests the whole time, because this is _stupid _and _dangerous_ and _would probably get them both killed_. Jim points out that plenty of people drive cars every day with no problem, and Bones points out that Jim has a special talent for turning even mundane activities into hazardous death-traps. They both silently muse on the time Jim almost choked to death on a toothpick in his sandwich, and then McCoy gets into the car.

Jim slides in after him, running his hands over the leather in a way that can only be described as _indecent._

Bones stares at the little plastic hula-dancer on the dash in fascination. He taps her head gently, and she begins to wriggle in a way that he's not entirely sure is legal in some states.

"This is Lola," Jim says, buckling his seat-belt.

"The hula-dancer?" Bones asks in surprise.

"No, the car." Jim rolls his eyes. "The Hula-dancer is Bette."

"It's a stupid name," Bones offers up.

Jim shrugs. "He named her after his wife."

"He named a car after his wife?"

"No, he named the hula-dancer after his wife." Jim says, starting the engine up.

Bones takes a moment to ponder this, and then Jim steps on the gas. Lola lets out a roar.

And then Bones is forced to shut his eyes as they charge forward into the sunlight.

The streets are twisted and narrow and crowded and dear God, Bones is sure they're all going to die. The sharp maneuvers Jim is making Lola pull have turned Bette's dance moves into something X-rated, as she jostles and gyrates and thrusts.

Bones has pressed his hands over his eyes before he realizes it, murmuring to himself, "I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die," He peeks out between a crack in his fingers just in time to see Jim slide between two cars closing in on each other and barely save the paintjob, and squeezes his eyes back shut.

Jim, naturally, knows what he's doing, and pretty soon they're out of the city. Bones blinks, startled, and looks around and sees nothing but open road. With a sigh, he drops his hands down, glad to see that the immediate threat of being smashed into a squishy Leonard pulp has apparently passed.

And then Jim _really_ hits it, and they're flying.

McCoy clenches his seat in a death-grip, knuckles bleached white, hollering at Jim.

Jim lets loose a wild, joyful laugh, and ignores him.

After a while, Bones deigns to look out of the window, and sees the landscape blurring around him. They're going fast, so damn fast, Bones is positive it's well over any acceptable speed-limits.

He looks the other way, and sees Jim. His friend is grinning like he hasn't got a care in the world, like pure gold is humming through his veins. It's pure, unbridled ecstasy, and Bones relaxes. Just a little. Because he quite likes that look on Jim.

It suits him.

They keep going faster and faster, and Bones idly wonders what happened to his quiet night in with his good friend bourbon, when he happens to look up through the windshield and see the ocean.

Right in front of them.

Directly where they're headed at a million miles an hour, with only a cliff that Bones would estimate at about _ohholyfuck_ feet tall standing in the way between them and the choppy gray water.

"Jim!" He yells out. "Dammit, Jim, _stop!"_

Something clicks in Jim's eyes, and suddenly his foot is off the gas, and a little later he's slamming on the brakes and yanking the wheel and they skid to a stop with twenty yards to spare between them and certain death.

Jim yanks the keys in the ignition, and Lola stills with a purr.

"_Fuck,_ Jim," Bones begins, and then he looks at his friend.

Jim's head has dropped to the steering wheel, fingers clenched around it so hard McCoy can feel his own hands hurt. He's breathing hard, like someone just kicked him in the gut.

"Jim?" He asks tentatively. He doesn't bother asking if he's okay.

He's not.

Bones rests a hand lightly on Jim's hunched shoulder, and feels him flinch viciously beneath him. He doesn't let go, though, and they stay like that for a long time.

Jim's violent breathing echoes through the Corvette, and they're both still as stone.

After awhile, Jim finally draws himself up.

"Sorry," He says with a broken smile.

Bones says something mildly insulting to let him know that it's okay.

Jim starts the engine back up, and Lola growls at them both.

They make their way back to Mickey's garage a lot slower, and it takes Bones a while to realize that he's still touching Jim. Eventually, he draws his hand back.

Jim is distant and flighty and edgy, and Bones knows that there's a whole host of issues brewing here just below the surface. He supposes he'll have to wait until Jim gets drunk before anything productive happens, though.

That's okay. He's got a mostly-full bottle of bourbon at home just waiting to be put to good use.

* * *

_Lemme know if you liked it. Or if you didn't._


	6. Essential

_Disclaimer: Nu._

_Also, not so much on _Rebel Without a Cause_, either.  
_

_Warnings: Profanity.  
_

_A/N: Okay, look, I'm an insomniac who just moved and is currently between both jobs and degrees. I've got loads of time on my hands. And apparently that time is being spent writing this. *sigh* If that's wrong, then...  
_

_"Essential" is also in the same verse as "Inefficient" and "Speed."  
_

_Thanks for reviewing.  
_

_

* * *

__Essential_

_What is essential is invisible to the eye._

_- The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint Exupery_

_Attributed as one of James Dean's favourite quotes, and inscribed on his memorial in Cholame, California._

Sam goes through a James Dean phase when he's fourteen, slicking back his hair and trying to take up smoking.

Jim still thinks his big brother walks on water at his point, so he follows Sam around with his collar turned up, trying to walk with a swagger and slouch.

It starts when they uncover the dusty holovids in the attic, buried in a cardboard box marked _"George"_ in shaky handwriting. They watch _Rebel Without a Cause_ with rapt, glowing eyes.

Jim realizes it's a turning point in his life, in more ways then one. Winona walks in just after Jim Stark's dad promises to be dependable, and completely loses it. Jim stares with wide eyes when his mother tears the wallpaper off the walls with her fingernails and screams. The snapped remains of the holovids disappear back into their box and are locked away in the attic.

Jim can't remember seeing his mother very often after that. It's probably a coincidence that the off-world assignments come in fast and heavy from then on, but he's always had a buried suspicion that it's not.

At any rate, James Dean changes James Kirk's life. It'll become starkly apparent ten years later, when he tries to be cool and brave and better. But it's obvious just a little while after that first time he saw the dead legend, when he plays a game of chickie run with himself and almost crashes and burns at the bottom of a cliff.

Jim speeds by his brother, who by then has moved on from his jaded anti-hero. When he reaches the edge he almost decides to go down with his ship and go out with a blaze of glory. He bails out, though, rolling across the ground, and sees the sports car do a swan-dive over the edge of the quarry and fall like a shooting star.

That marks another turning point in Jim's life, and once again, it's all James Dean's fault.

* * *

Years later, the effects of James Dean will swagger back into Jim's life, and take his best friend Leonard McCoy along for the ride.

Sometimes Jim says things like he's quoting people, and Leonard will try to memorize the statements so he can take them home and look them up and maybe gain some insight into the insanity of his best friend.

It starts when he's searching for _"Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today,_" which Jim had uttered to Leonard when he was more than a little buzzed and staring up at the stars as if he could reach them if he just stood on his toes and _stretched._

That's when Leonard connects the dots for the first time between Dean and Kirk, staring at the holopic of a blue-eyed blonde with a tragic smile.

He scrolls through the rest of Dean's quotes and recognizes some of them from when they passed over Jim's lips.

_The only greatness for man is immortality._

Well, if that's all Dean wanted, Leonard thinks cynically, he certainly was great.

It all starts to come to a head on Jim's twenty-third birthday, when he's retreated, like he does every year, to some dark corner of his mind and hidden himself away from the world. He's completely smashed by the time Leonard finds him, quiet and moody. He's sprawled across the floor, and Leonard sinks down to sit next to him just in time to catch the red title credits on the holovid.

_Rebel Without a Cause._

"S'was my dad's favourite movie," Jim mutters.

Leonard only nods, because it's not like Jim will hear anything he has to say right now.

He shifts closer to Jim while James Dean's angst-ridden youth pleads with his dad to be a man. Jim falls neatly into Leonard's side, head dropping to the crook between his neck and his shoulder, breath fluttering against Leonard's throat.

When the final tragedy of the film plays out Leonard starts carding one hand through Jim's soft blonde hair.

They stay still and quiet like that long after the credits have finished.

Some musty part of Leonard's memory stirs and points out that James Dean died when he was twenty-four, and if Jim keeps going he's only got one year left.

It's something Leonard's worried about before. Jim shines so bright and hot he's always afraid that the kid will flare up and burn out on day. Shine so brilliantly he'll go supernova. Too bright for the world to bear. It's true that only the good die young, the really great ones go before their time, before they can be worn down or adulterated or broken.

And Jim's always lived fast.

Leonard tells the worries in his head to shut up. Jim won't die. At least not while Leonard is around to keep the moron from killing himself.

Of course, things get a little dicey shortly after that when Jim almost drives Leonard and himself straight into the sea in a 1969 Stingray.

Leonard realizes he's still shaking when the two of them walk home, the Corvette sealed away in its garage sepulchre. Jim won't talk about what just happened, but Leonard is prepared to wait.

And eventually, one night, Jim tells him. Beneath a quiet haze of tequila and bourbon, Jim talks about Sam and Frank and fast cars and James Dean and death.

Bones listens. Then he insults Jim properly and let's him know that he's not going to die alone. And he's not going to live alone, either.

Jim smiles at him, the brilliant movie star smile that makes Bones feel like he's the only one that gets to see it.

Besides, Bones thinks later, when Jim's breathing is even and steady and the only noise in the quiet. James Kirk may be a lot like James Dean, but they're not the same.

James Dean might have been a rebel without a cause, but Jim always has something to fight for.

* * *

_Review. You know you want to. Okay, well _I _want you to._


	7. Placid, Plaster

_Disclaimer: Aucun._

_Warnings: Profanity, mentions of violence, slash. Placid is K/S, Plaster is just plotless K & B friendship fluff._

_A/N: Thank you for reviewing, gents.  
_

_

* * *

__Placid_

Kirk lay still as calm water, focusing on breathing slow, even breaths. The air on the planet was hot and dry, and the lack of moisture made him feel a little like he was suffocating. He stared up at the thin red laser hovering directly above his throat, watching it quiver almost imperceptibly like a bad fluorescent light.

_In, out,_ Jim thought, breathing deep. _In, out._

It was a bit like a guillotine, Jim mused. One of those ancient execution devices the French were so excited about during their revolution. Though really, the Malicions' version was even worse, because instead of kneeling face-down with his neck in wooden restraints, like he had seen in sketches of the French Revolution, Jim was lying on his back, staring straight at the device that was going to kill him and just waiting for it fall. It was a bit like a cheese-cutter, except it could slice with surgical precision, neatly divorcing his head from his body before the two were even aware the relationship was doomed. And it was currently about four feet above the soft flesh of throat.

_In, out. In out._ Jim had never been big on breathing exercises. He'd always had more self-destructive ways of dealing.

Still, every moment he focused on his breath was a moment he wasn't thinking about the pain coursing through his veins like hot tar. During his captivity, the Malicions had broken both of his legs. The fractured bones and torn flesh let out waves of pain every time his body started to numb, like a radiator maintaining his internal agony. The blood had run down his shins and dried in a thick crust like a second, brittle skin that cracked whenever he moved too much. Though he had been trying really, really hard not too move too much.

Oh well. Bones would be happy that they were remarkably clean breaks, he thought, choking back a laugh like it was blood in his mouth. Jim dammed the rising tide of hysteria in his mind. _In, out. In, out._

There were a half-dozen Malicions standing guard on the dais Jim was lying on, though he wasn't quite sure what they were worried about, what with both of his legs snapped below the knee. Jim had already calculated twelve escape plans, all of which had a less than 1% chance of succeeding.

Even if he somehow managed to overwhelm his guard, with their laser-edged halberds and all-too-eager willingness to kill him, hundreds more Malicions filled the coliseum, eager for the show to start.

Jim, naturally, was the main event.

_In, out. _He hadn't been crazy about the breathing techniques, but Spock had suggested them, and the Vulcan had a talent for making Jim get all dopey and ridiculous and willing to try new things. And besides, seeing the way Spock's eyebrows softened and his lips _almost_ curved and his eyes grew warm -- which Jim had figured out was the Vulcan version of delight -- made it totally worth it.

_In, out. In, out._ He needed to stay calm.

Even with the ridiculous odds, Jim would've still tried to escape. He always bet straight up or double-O on Roulette, after all, and he liked to hit eighteens in Blackjack. Besides, it just wasn't in his nature to go out without a fight. He would've done his damnedest to get away, broken legs and impossible odds or no.

But instead, he was taking it lying down. Literally.

Because the last message Spock had managed to get to him had stated quite clearly that they had a plan to rescue him, and he just had to play along during the ceremony/execution/what the fuck is wrong with this planet? And he trusted Spock. With everything. With his life.

So, Jim just had to keep it together. Obviously, Spock had some awesome master plan and would sweep in at the eleventh hour, saving Jim (who was not a damsel in distress, dammit) and hopefully kick some Malicion ass.

_In, out._

His crew would rescue him. Spock would rescue him. And with any luck there would be lots of fuck-I-almost-lost-you sex. Lots.

Bones better heal his legs quick.

An excited cheer suddenly went up among the crowd, the shouts rumbling through the coliseum like thunder. Jim tried to crane his neck to see what all the fuss was about, but a Malicion guard slammed the blunt end of his halberd into the back of Jim's hand.

A twisted cry peeled itself away from Jim's lips and his muscles twitched, fingernails digging into the table beneath him. The Malicion guards had brutal ways of teaching about the consequences of moving, but he always was a poor student.

_In, out, _fuck you, _in out._

Somebody was speaking now in a magnified voice, but without Uhura Jim had no hope for deciphering the throaty, vowel-heavy language. But he felt safe in hazarding a guess that they were talking about him.

The voice ended its speech with a war cry, which was echoed by the eager crowd. The roar was loud enough for Jim to want to cover his ears, but he was pretty sure Smug-y McBastard over there with the halberd would smash his hand to a pulp.

And then the shouting dropped to a hush, and the hot air thrummed with anticipation, and the laser began to drop.

It plummeted slowly downward, closer and closer to severing Jim's head, and Jim was having a hard time staying calm.

_In, out, in, out, fuck, fuck, fuck._

Anytime, Spock, he thought. Anytime at all would be good.

The laser gathered speed as it fell, and then it was a foot from Jim's skin, then half a foot, then four inches, then two, then one, then

The bottom of the dais collapsed with a crash, and Jim fell.

Sudden darkness swooped up around him, and he kicked and flailed and his broken legs burned. He screamed out hoarsely. Sunlight flooded through the unexpected hole above him, and he could barely make out the narrow red stripe of the laser.

And then Jim landed on something firm and warm and it crashed to the ground beneath him.

He and his landing cushion were tangled in a heap of limbs, and Jim struggled to bring himself up. His shaking muscles caved beneath him. He buried his face in the chest of the man who had broken his fall, breathing harshly.

The skin beneath the Starfleet-issue fabric shifting across his face was warm and Jim breathed in the familiar scent. Strong hands clasped around him, and Jim relaxed for a moment.

After an instant he came to himself and looked up.

"Hullo, Spock," He greeted. "Nice timing."

"Captain," Spock acknowledged. The Vulcan climbed to his feet, bringing Jim with him. Spock held Jim to his chest in a steady grip. Jim squirmed. The bones in his shins grated together sharply, and the protest he was about to make dissolved on his tongue into a smothered moan.

He looked around the dark room he had fallen into, dust billowing like snowflakes in the shards of light from the impromptu sunroof. A handful of ensigns were gathered around, phasers drawn. A few crumpled bodies of Malicions were scattered on the ground, and Jim recognized his guards. They had apparently rained down along with Jim when the dais floor had given way.

"Nice of you to drop in, sir," An ensign (Kraquin, his mind supplied) said with a cheeky grin. Jim made a mental note to issue a ship-wide ban on puns.

"We need to move quickly, Captain," Spock spoke up. "Reinforcements should already be on their way, and this cellar will not remain secure for much longer."

"Uh-huh," Jim agreed from his position in Spock's arms. "Lead the way then, Commander." He gestured forward.

Despite Spock's careful movements, the escape jostled Jim's injuries something fierce. He tried to use Spock's heart like a metronome to time his breathing, but the angle was all wrong. At some point, Jim drifted into unconsciousness with an uneven rhythm of _in, out, in, out, in, out_ drifting through his mind.

* * *

A week later, when Jim has finally managed to escape the sickbay and is allowed to spend his nights in his own bunk, he is pressed loosely into Spock's side. The Vulcan is still and calm next to him, and the ship is silent all around them. Jim can't sleep.

_In, out._ He thinks. _One two three. In, out._

His legs twinge a little, and he squashes himself further into Spock's side, letting the Vulcan's heat flood into him.

_In, out. In, ou-- _Oh, fuck it.

Jim presses his lips just beneath the curve of Spock's jaw-line and lets his fingers crawl up Spock's throat until they twist themselves into his dark hair.

In the darkness, Spock moves, rolling over and pressing his palms into the mattress on either side of Jim. He leans down, and his lips find Jim's, moving slowly and steadily.

Jim captures the alien lips loosely in his teeth, eyelids slipping closed. His hands move up to interlace behind Spock's neck and he releases Spock's lips to taste the Vulcan's tongue with his own.

Breathing exercises be damned. This is the most relaxed Jim's ever been.

He loops one arm around Spock's back and hauls himself half-way up, twisting his body so he and Spock fall on their sides. He slips one hand up Spock's shirt, tracing the hard muscles beneath it.

Jim's never been one for taking things lying down.

* * *

_Plaster_

"It's itchy," Jim whined, snaking the chopstick beneath his cast. Bones wasn't entirely certain where he'd _gotten_ a chopstick, since they were on a damn Starship for God's sake, and as supportive of cultural heritages as Starfleet was they also had a limited budget.

"Stop that," He demanded, drawing back Jim's hand before he managed to make things worse.

"But it's itchy," Jim defended.

In the past week Bones had caught Jim attempting to stick a fork, butter knife, pencil, toothbrush, letter opener (letter opener? They were in _space._ Jim didn't get _letters._), pair of scissors, and corkscrew into the delicate space between his cast and the still-healing flesh of his broken arm. The doctor had not been pleased.

"Well maybe next time you won't decide to pull some stupid stunt like, oh, say, _jumping off the eighteenth story_ and will keep all of your limbs _intact_." Bones growled. It was a false hope, of course, and they both knew it.

Jim had jumped off of a building, true, but he had been diving after Chekov at the time. It hadn't been the kid's fault, not really, since those _assholes_ of a welcoming committee had decided sometime during the welcome feast to shove the kid out of a window, but _still._ They were all morons.

"I didn't actually fall eighteen stories, you know," Jim pouted. "That shuttle caught me."

"Oh, _I know_," Bones snapped. "If by 'caught' you mean 'suddenly appeared below me so I smashed into it at a few thousand miles an hour,' then yes."

Jim shrugged with on shoulder. "Same difference."

Bones grumbled and turned away to fiddle with the arrangement of hypos laid out on the counter. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jim move, and whirled around just in time to watch the starship captain attempting to stick a knitting needle down his cast.

"Dammit, Jim!" He cried, snagging it out of the younger man's hands. "Where did you even _get_ this?" He groused in exasperated wonder.

Jim flashed Bones his brightest smile, all golden and white teeth and wonder. Bones glared. Jim should know by now that he was completely immune.

"If you keep this up I'll tape your hands behind your back," The doctor warned.

"Bo-oooones," Jim complained. "It's _itchy_. It's annoying."

"So are you," Bones retorted. "Now lie down quietly on the bed like a good little patient and let me do my job."

Jim's bottom lip stuck out to a ridiculous degree as his pout increased. Bones turned back to the hyposprays.

Normally he could have fixed up a broken bone without the use of archaic measures like plaster casts, but Jim had managed to pulverize his arm to such a degree that at this stage in the healing this was his best option.

Bones still remembered leaning out of the broken window in horror, screaming Jim's name as he watched his best friend fall like a shot bird.

Jim had followed Chekov right out the window in a swan dive and had managed to snag the Russian ensign out of the air and clutch him to his chest, twisting so that he was between Chekov and the ground. The shuttle had come out of nowhere. Jim and Chekov had slammed into it, and Jim's arm had somehow gotten trapped between them and the shuttle in the midst of their flailing. They had crashed into the shuttle hard enough to make it shudder off course, and skidded across its roof.

By the time McCoy had managed to get to the two of them, Jim was lying on his back, Chekov hunched over him in fear. The captain's arm was a pulpy, bloody mess, lying soft and wilted next to him. His face was white, muscles pulsing sharply in his throat, mouth parted open and eyes glazed over.

Bones hadn't been sure he was breathing.

Chekov was rambling incoherently in Russian, half-sobbing. Bones had checked him over quickly to make sure he wasn't bleeding out of every orifice before manhandling him to the side and checking on Jim.

Now Jim was complaining about an itch. _Of course._

McCoy sighed and ran a hand over his eyes. He turned back to Jim, who dropped the scalpel he'd been holding with an innocent expression.

"It's _really_ itchy," He said, hedging off McCoy's impending rant as the doctor took a deep breath.

Whatever Bones had been about to say evaporated as a sudden memory of the aerial view of Jim tumbling through the air to the busy city street below hit him.

"Yeah, I bet it is, kid," He said instead, crossing over to sit down heavily on the bed next to Jim. Jim obligingly scooted over. McCoy sighed without any weariness behind it. Then he frowned as his palm connected with something hard.

"Wait, Bones, don't--" Jim protested weakly. Bones ignored him.

With a tug, he peeled back Jim's sheet to reveal a brightly-coloured assortment of filched objects. Crochet needles and spoons and rulers and tweezers and coat-hangers and styluses and what looked suspiciously like sex toys.

Jim's grin turned up a few watts as he looked at Bones with his best puppy-dog eyes.

"_Dammit_, Jim!" Bones cried.

"But it's _so_ itchy!"

* * *

_Every time you don't review, a tribble dies._


	8. Yellow

_Disclaimer: Zaden._

_Also, lyrics are Coldplay's "Yellow." The apostrophe signifies a possessive, meaning they own it and not me.  
_

_Warnings (No, seriously, read the warnings): This fic deals primarily with an eating disorder. It also contains child neglect and abuse, including sexual abuse, and other sensitive things. Rather dark. Serious profanity. Slash, K/B and K&S friendship._

_A/N: Because until I looked up the lyrics while writing this, I always thought he was singing "you're skin and bones," not "your skin and bones." Homonyms make all the difference.  
_

_**

* * *

**_

**Look at the stars **

**Look how they shine for you**

**And everything you do **

**Yeah they were all yellow **

"Look, it's Jim Kirk!" The kids jeered, yanking on the back of Jim's backpack so he stumbled in the dust. "He's so ugly his own mother can't stand to look at him."

Jim pulled himself away and kept walking on with his head bowed, down the rutted dirt road to home. School was finally done, another day of sitting in class and wishing he were anywhere else over.

When he reached the porch, with its faded gray wood and peeling paint, Jim carefully toed off his shoes and slipped in past the screen door, keeping his hand on it so it didn't bang behind him. He crept in his socked feet past Frank's sleeping form, skipped the third stair up that always creaked, and made it into his and Sam's bedroom.

Sam was gone, probably off getting high with his friends or breaking into another abandoned building. His mom was off-world. He didn't know where.

Jim looked into the toothpaste-splattered mirror hanging in the bathroom and stared at his reflection. Critically, he poked his skin, sucking his cheeks in between his teeth and cocking his head to get a better angle.

_Did his mom never look at him because he was ugly? _

Because it was true she never did look at him. He'd gotten used to it, he supposed, but he'd never really got _why._

When he was little he'd always tried to be better, thinking if he could do something right his mother would finally see him. _If only I did well in school, if only I fixed up dad's car, if only I made dinner, if only I cleaned the house, if only I told her I loved her._

_If only I was better looking._

**I came along **

**I wrote a song for you **

**And all the things you do **

**And it was called yellow **

Winona Kirk had a lot of things taken from her in her life, but she still had her looks, and she wasn't about to lose those.

Hurriedly she walked by her youngest son, chasing a mess of scrambled eggs and cheddar around his plate with a fork. She winced at the scraping noise.

Rummaging through the fridge for her grapefruit, she called back absentmindedly over her shoulder.

"Calories are bad, Jimmy. They're what makes people fat." Ah, there. Snagging the rose-coloured fruit half, she pulled out of the refrigerator and walked towards the dining room table.

Hesitating, she looked where her son was sitting, then decided it was a nice enough day to eat her breakfast on the back porch.

Jim watched his mother's retreating back disappear. He looked down at his plate of eggs, gooey and yellow and congealed, and something squirmed inside his stomach.

Silently, he got up and slipped out the front door. He tipped the plate over in the dirt for the dogs and walked to school.

**So then I took my turn **

**Oh all the things I've done **

**And it was all yellow **

"God, you're worthless," Frank moaned, pushing Jim's thin shoulders into the bed. "Fucking waste of space."

Jim wriggled beneath him, trying to get his hands out to claw at Frank's face. His fingernails raked over Frank's chest, who reared back and slammed a fist into his face.

"Do you know how much it costs to keep you?" Frank roared, flecks of spit flying out of his mouth and landing wetly on Jim's cheek. "And what do you do in return, huh? Nothing!"

His fingers dug into Jim's skin.

"You're a lousy, stupid kid." He panted. "Fucking retard. You're own mother couldn't stand you. She's always running off-planet and leaving me stuck with you."

Jim thrashed and fought. Frank hit him again.

"I give up everything to take care of your worthless hide, but you don't deserve _anything_," Frank whispered. "You're a freak. I hear about all the unnatural things you get up to in school, don't think I don't. Your mother should've drowned you when you were a pup and saved us all a lot of pain."

Frank's clumsy hands fumbled with the button on his jeans. Jim tried to push him away and Frank grabbed him roughly, snapping one of his fingers.

"You're a whore, Jimmy. Just like you're mother." His breath was hot in Jim's ear. "An ugly whore."

It hurt, it hurt, oh god, it hurt. Make it stop, please make it stop. Somebody, anybody...

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be good. I'll be better. I'll be anything... Just, please, somebody save me..._

**Your skin **

**Oh yeah your skin and bones **

**Turn into something beautiful **

**D'you know you know I love you so **

**You know I love you so **

_Ugly worthless look at you no one can look at you freak stupid fat fat fat ugly whore_

_Don't eat that. Are you really going to eat that? Look at you, stuffing your face. _

_Oh god, oh god, how much have I eaten today? Oh jesus, god, get it out get it out get it out_

_What have I done, what have I done, I don't deserve this, I don't, what was I thinking? Stop just stop don't have any more you can't you can't you can't_

_Run run run lose it make it go away burn it away get away from here just RUN_

_Don't eat don't even look at it, it tastes like ash and flesh and bleach _

_Fat ugly awful undesirable hated everyone hates you tupid revolting horrible fat fat ugly sinful stupid slut freak ugly_

_Let them hit you Let them cave your face in Let them erase everything that was wrong with you Let them make you unrecognizable_

_Ugly stupid piece of shit why why this is all your fault stop You can't eat You don't deserve to eat DON'T eat don't do it don't you dare you slimy worthless whore_

**I swam across **

**I jumped across for you **

**Oh all the things you do **

**Cause you were all yellow **

Jim comes off as cocky and brash and so sure of himself to everyone, but Bones has been his friend for a while now, long enough to know that Jim's not always what he seems.

It's the little things he starts noticing, and they start piling up.

They spend half an hour in the mess hall, and Bones starts counting all the bits of food Jim doesn't take. He's all bright smiles and anecdotes and distractions, but Bones is an awful lot like a pit bull when he wants to be, and once he bites down he doesn't let go. Jim slides the food over his plate and then dumps it, full but mutilated beyond recognition, down the garbage chute.

"Guess I'm just not that hungry," He says, when McCoy calls him on it.

* * *

Of course, Jim is still cocky and brash and annoying, and occasionally it all blows up. They fight, and McCoy finally takes off. He's going to a bar, preferably several of them. He stumbles back to his and Jim's dorm at five in the morning to find Jim standing in the entrance way, exactly where he left him.

"Have you been here all night?" Bones demands when he sees his shaking legs.

"I thought you weren't coming back," Jim says dully, and his eyes are flickering around like he's scared to look at Bones but even more afraid to look away.

"I live here," Bones says dumbly, and he can see _does not compute_ flare up in Jim's eyes. He tries to lead Jim to the sofa and as soon as the kid moves his legs collapse beneath him, sliding away.

Bones barely catches him before he hits the ground.

* * *

Jim is fragile underneath all the bravado, and pretty soon Bones gets a call from him asking if he can pick Jim up from the hospital.

Jim is still all show and he smiles reassuringly at Bones, and he has a great story to tell. But a nurse catches Bones before they leave and explains.

"He collapsed." She says matter-of-factly. "Looks like he hasn't eaten anything substantial in three days."

Bones isn't _Jim_, but he's still smart, and he connects the dots.

* * *

Somewhere between the darkness and the hurt and little shards of glass sliding against one another inside of him, Jim kisses Bones.

He's a little bit terrified, but Bones tastes warm and haunting and sweet.

Bones closes his eyes and lets the two of them linger together, and he comes to the surprising revelation that he's a little bit in love with Jim.

Jim is broken into a million little pieces, Bones knows, so he figures it's gotta be his job to try and put him back together again.

* * *

"I love you," Bones says, and he's thrusting slow and hard into Jim. "You're beautiful," He moans out.

Jim's eyes slide open and he looks at Bones, lines of sweat running down his neck and outlining his collar bone.

Crazy things said mid-coitus Bones is allowed to get away with. Jim needs something more though, of course he needs something more.

Bones tries to let Jim know that he cares everyday, that he thinks he's just fine the way he is, that he wants him to be whole and happy and alive. A lot of the times, Jim just doesn't get it.

But sometimes he does.

And it's not about whispering sweet nothings or telling Jim his shirt looks nice. This is Bones, after all.

But Jim is a genius, and he can figure out that while Bones is yelling at him or insulting him or glaring, he's really just saying _I love you You're beautiful Stay with me._

_

* * *

_

Jim gets better, piece by piece.

Sometimes he's okay, and sometimes he eats.

Sometimes he doesn't, but Bones is there.

He makes it through the academy alive and as healthy as someone who regularly finds himself the victim of freak accidents can be. Bones is there, always, through the darkness and the dawn.

**I drew a line **

**I drew a line for you **

**Oh what a thing to do **

**And it was all yellow **

Sometime after Bones saves him, Jim saves the world.

And now, when they cruise through space doing their best to keep the universe from rotting away, things are good. Good as they've ever been.

Sometimes Jim has better days and sometimes he has bad days. It's on a bad day that Spock touches him.

He's grown close to his first officer, his new best friend. They've tried the mind-meld thing a few times already, and Jim is both fascinated and creeped out by the whole experience.

Now though, now was a bad day.

The Tragodians are all dead. Every last one of them. Jim watched them burn and fall and die beneath the attack, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't save them. He couldn't save a single one.

He's beamed back on the _Enterprise_ bloody and beaten and so very, very tired. Bones touches his face gently with one hand when he's done with Jim's examination, but he's caught up in the whole mess and his sickbay is full. Jim has dinner alone.

He brings a forkful of food to his lips and it burns as soon as it hits his tongue.

_God, do you think you deserve to eat? They're all dead, you stupid piece of shit, you killed them, and now you want to _eat_?_

It's tastes like charcoal and shit and acid rain and Jim spits it back onto his plate, lurching back from the table so hard his chair topples to the ground.

He stares at the plate of food sitting innocuously there, then turns and runs into the lavatory, vomiting up everything he hasn't eaten.

Of course, he forgets that he shares corridors with his first officer.

The opposite door slides open and there are quick, measured footsteps to his side.

"Captain?" He hears Spock ask. "Are you alright?"

Jim growls, and the sound burns his aching throat.

He slumps back, exhausted with his heaving, and then Spock rests a hand against his forehead.

He's probably just checking Kirk's temperature, but what he gets is

_God, worthless ugly whore you killed them you killed them you killed them you stupid pile of shit you deserve to die Why aren't you dead Why aren't you dead like they are Ugly fat slut get it out get it out whore hideous monster you monster I hate you_

Spock reels back like he'd touched a hot stove, and not just Jim's skin.

Jim takes one look at the unconcealed emotion in the Vulcan's eyes and slides to the ground, burying his face in the cold tile.

Spock will leave now, he knows. Now that he's caught a glimpse of the real Jim. He waits for the Vulcan to retreat, to back away from him in horror and disgust and never come back.

His breath echoes harshly through the room.

"Jim?" Spock asks hesitantly.

"Jim," He says again more firmly, moving closer. One long-fingered hand rests lightly on Jim's shoulder. Jim flinches beneath the touch.

_Why was Spock still there?_

Slowly, Jim looks up.

He stares at the Vulcan, and his first officer stares back. Jim knows Spock well enough to recognize the compassion in his non-expression.

He swallows hard.

"Jim," His first officer says carefully. "It has been my experience that many humans possessing exceptional qualities oftentimes experience erroneous paradigms with regards to their own self-worth."

Spock pauses, studying Jim with dark eyes.

"However," He continues. "While your diminished regard for yourself may not be anomalous, it is, in fact, incorrect."

"Jim," Spock says softly. "Through the course of our work together it has been my great pleasure to discover that you are the singularly strongest, bravest, and most benevolent person I have ever known."

"Furthermore," He adds. "You are, by all standards, remarkably _beautiful."_

Spock says it like a critic surveying art, like he is discussing sunsets or newborn babies or a night sky full of stars. Like he is stating nothing but fact.

And then, once again, he lightly presses his fingers to Jim's skin, cupping his cheek.

And Jim gets a wave of pride and respect and appreciation and _love_ so strong it almost overwhelms him.

**Your skin **

**Oh yeah your skin and bones **

**Turn into something beautiful **

**D'you know for you I bleed myself dry **

**For you I bleed myself dry **

Slowly, Spock and Bones keep putting Jim back together.

Bones doesn't ever thank Spock, not outright, but he shows his appreciation in the extra effort he puts in his insults just for him, and Spock gets it.

And Jim eats full meals each day, sandwiched between the two of them, savouring every bite. Spock and Bones watch with their mouths full of sweet taste even when they're not eating anything.

They're not perfect and he's not whole but it's alright.

**It's true look how they shine for you**

** look how they shine for you **

**look how they shine for you **

**look how they shine for you **

**look how they shine for you **

**look how they shine **

**look at the stars look how they shine for you **


	9. Moonshine, Prerogative, Cohabit

_Disclaimer: Nenhum.  
_

_Warnings: Profanity, slash. Kirk/Scotty, Kirk/Spock, and Kirk/Bones, respectively._

_A/N: I have no idea where this Kirk/Scotty thing came from. But the word was moonshine, and, well... what can you do? _

_

* * *

_

_Moonshine_

It starts as a love triangle.

Kirk and Scotty are both hopelessly devoted to the same girl, of course, and her name is _Enterprise._ No one quite understands their passion like they do.

Outsiders would think that she was a cold, hard mistress. But Kirk and Scotty know the way her engines hum and her bridge glows with light, and the way she is warm with life and movement inside her.

There's no jealousy to be had, because the _Enterprise_ is certainly big enough for the both of them. Scott and Kirk can see an equal when they look into each other's eyes, somebody else in the universe who is willing to give anything and everything to make sure their lady sails eternally through the darkness of space.

Also, the booze probably had something to do with it.

Scotty's still is probably the worst-kept secret in Starfleet, and certainly the most satisfying. The Scotsman can brew things that'll get you smashed in one sip, things with the sharp tang of vodka or the smooth oaky taste of whiskey, drinks that'll taste like nothing you've ever had before. They all burn as they slide down your throat, and they're all guaranteed to get you drunk, sooner or later.

It's all highly illegal and inappropriate, and Jim loves it.

After the hard missions, the really hard ones, Jim likes to go down to the deepest parts of the _Enterprise's_ belly, the dark, tangled mess of organized chaos. Scotty is there, more than happy to share his drinks, to talk about nothing or everything or just stay silent.

This night, the still births something that tastes like smoke and raspberries and rain, sharp and stinging. It sears Jim's tongue and he keeps going until he can't taste it any more.

Scotty's matching him swig for swig, and the stories they share range from the worst to the best until they can't manage anything coherent anymore.

Jim is laughing hysterically and he can't really remember why and he doesn't really care and then suddenly he's leaning over and his lips are on Scotty's.

The inside of Scotty's mouth tastes like raspberries.

The kiss is sloppy and messy and neither of them can aim very well and pretty soon Jim slumps forward, panting and still laughing, leaning against Scotty's shoulder.

Very shortly after that both of them are missing most of their clothes.

(Scotty does manage to retain his left sock, but that's not really relevant.)

The next morning they both wake up with splitting, godawful, kill-me-now headaches, still tangled up in each other and completely naked.

They've both been in this position (Well, not quite exactly _this_ position. Kirk's legs are at a funny angle and his arm is twisted up beneath Scotty and he's not quite sure where everything is.) enough times before to connect the dots fairly quickly.

It's a bit of a surprise that neither of them are particularly bothered.

And then it happens again.

And again.

And they're not always drunk at the time, either.

And pretty soon it keeps happening enough times to go from being a surprise to a routine.

Well, Scotty figures, if the _Enterprise_ is big enough to have two men love her, than his heart is plenty big enough to love both her and Jim.

* * *

_Prerogative_

"Hello, Spock," McCoy said pleasantly, sliding into the seat opposite him.

"Dr. McCoy," Spock acknowledged, tipping his head. "Due to the nature of our relationship, doctor, it is highly unlikely that this is a 'social visit.' Is something amiss?"

"Not really," McCoy said with a tight smile. Spock was not adept at inferring human emotions from facial expressions, but the look did not appear happy to him. "I just wanted to talk to you."

That was... unusual.

"Certainly, doctor," Spock said.

"It's about you and Jim," The doctor added. Spock froze. Granted, he wasn't moving at the time, so the change wasn't entirely noticeable.

"I take it," He said carefully. "That you know about the... change in the relationship between the captain and I."

"You could say that," McCoy said, nodding. Spock chose to interpret that as a 'yes.'

"What, exactly, did you wish to discuss regarding this change?" Spock questioned.

"Jim is my best friend," McCoy said slowly. Spock inclined his head, he knew this. McCoy continued. "And since the bastard somehow managed to force himself into my life like that, as his best friend, I have certain... shall we say, duties. Responsibilities. _Rights."_

"One of which," He furthered, "Includes coming over and here and letting you know that if you _ever, _ever hurt him, I will make you die in a way so horrible your freakishly-genius brain can't even comprehend it."

McCoy paused. Spock wasn't entirely sure what the appropriate reaction was for a situation such as this.

"Got it?" McCoy asked.

"I understand," Spock said. "Dr. McCoy, while I can... appreciate your compassion for Jim, I can inform you with a significant degree of certainty that I have no intentions of, as you say, hurting him."

"Good." The man said coolly. "See that it remains as such, or we're back to the whole pain and death thing."

McCoy pushed back from the table and stood, making for the door.

"Goodbye, Dr. McCoy," Spock said politely as the other man exited.

"Pain and death, Spock." McCoy called back over his shoulder. "Pain and death."

"What was that all about?" Jim asked curiously, walking into the room.

"The doctor was simply exercising one of the prerogatives afforded to his position aboard the ship, Captain." Spock answered smoothly.

"Riiight." Jim said slowly, shaking his head and letting it go.

"So, fancy going back to my quarters and reviewing the mission parameters?" Jim purred, lashes lowered, leaning close to Spock so his low voice didn't have far to carry. Spock had learned that those behaviours meant that Jim was requesting sexual activities, regardless of what his speech might imply.

Spock hesitated.

"Certainly, Jim," He said, swallowing down the completely irrational moment of fear.

* * *

_Cohabit_

Jim smacked the side of the replicator and tried again. The damn thing was fighting him when he really didn't need it to. It was important that, that morning, breakfast be perfect.

Bones liked his toast blackened to carcinogenic proportions, and the replicator always insisted on turning it out perfectly golden brown.

Jim gave up on the replicator on the fourth try, and pulled out the vintage cigarette lighter he liked to keep around for emergencies, running it under the bread until he got it right.

Carefully, he set the toast down, tendrils of smoke curling up around it, and spread a thin layer of real butter over the grainy surface. Now, that had been a bitch to find. Not like they kept cows on a spaceship. Luckily Ensign Granger had recently gotten back from leave with his family down on their terran farm. It had cost Jim a wallet-full of credits and a stack of Orion skin mags, but the ensign had reluctantly parted with a portion of his golden treasure.

And to finish it off, a gooey russet spread of homemade peach jam, from the jar Bones' mother sent every Christmas. Jim had filched it from under Bones' desk, right next to his bottle of aged single-malt.

Jim added a couple of eggs, sunny-side up, and framed them with bacon in a smiley face. Pouring a glass of orange juice and a glass of milk, he laid everything carefully on the table.

"Jim?" Bones stumbled into the room with a yawn, tripping over the bed sheets he was clenching around his lower half. "Have you seen my pants?"

"I thought I left them on the floor," He continued, bleary-eyed. "But they weren't there."

Probably because Jim had taken them and sent them to laundry.

"Good morning!" Jim chirped. "Breakfast?"

McCoy's eyes cracked open. He looked at the food on the table, and his eyes narrowed.

"What did you do?" He asked suspiciously.

"What?" Jim defended. "Can't a guy just make breakfast for his --"

Boyfriend? Best friend? He and Bones never could decided what they were.

"Chief medical officer?" He concluded.

"Oh, we're using titles, are we, captain?" Bones muttered.

"You didn't mind it so much last night, _doctor_," Jim pointed out.

"Jim, _what did you do_?" Bones demanded.

Jim tried his best innocent look. "Me? Nothing! Nothing at all."

"Look, Bones!" He diverted, when the doctor only stared flatly. "Real butter!"

Bones glared.

Jim sighed. "Okay. So, you remember the plan the Gourians had --"

Bones interrupted. "Oh, you mean the one where you trade yourself for a bunch of idiot hostages who managed to get themselves captured by their own corrupt government? The plan that would end almost certainly with your gruesome and bloody death at the hands of a bunch of torture-happy fascists really, really eager to send a message saying "don't fuck with us" to Starfleet with a really, really dumb strategy to go about doing so? The plan where you die horribly for a rebel cause that seems to be commanded by a group of idealistic morons who apparently have spent their entire so-called resistance using their brain cells in a game of jacks? That plan?"

"Oh, so you do remember," Jim said.

"Dammit, Jim!" Bones roared.

"The eggs, Bones!" Jim pleaded, brandishing the plate. "Look at the eggs. See how they're smiling at you? Why can't you be more like the eggs?"

"You can't just latch on to every opportunity for self-sacrifice like a teething puppy, Jim!" McCoy yelled. "You know, if you keep throwing yourself into these suicidal situations, you're going to get yourself killed!"

"They've got kids, Bones," Jim said softly. "The hostages, six of them are just kids. I can't let them die, Bones, I can't."

"Why not?" Bones demanded, already knowing it was a useless question. "Just for once, why can't you save yourself?"

Jim shook his head. "Despite what you think, Leonard, I'm not worth it."

"They've agreed to release all twenty-four hostages in exchange for just me. Twenty-four people will live if I go. I can't believe that my life is worth more than twenty-four others." He added, when McCoy only stewed silently.

"_I _think it is," Bones said angrily, sliding heavily into his chair.

"Yeah, I know," Jim said with a grin. "That's why I love you."

Shoving the plate across the table in Bones' direction, Jim made for the door. He paused when he passed where Bones was sitting sulkily, leaning down.

McCoy felt Jim's hot breath against his cheek for just an instant before Jim was pressing his lips against his skin, gently, softly, lightly, and then disappearing through the door to take command of the bridge.

Bones sighed, rubbing his cheek. Moodily, he stabbed his egg with a fork, slick yellow yolk leaking out and drowning his toast. He watched the puddle spread for a moment before grabbing the plate by its edge and heaving it.

"Dammit!" He shouted.

The plate smacked against the far wall and clattered to the floor, the plastic nearly unbreakable. The eggs stuck to the wall and slid messily down, leaving faint stains.

Bones stared at the scattered remains of breakfast, breathing harshly.

"Fuck," He whispered, burying his head into his hands.

* * *

Jim was standing by the transporter platform, waiting to go down planet-side. The bridge crew was gathered around him, all of them lost for words.

Jim was smiling at them, not at all looking like he was about to go do something stupid and foolhardy and _noble_.

"Look," He said. "I want you all to know that, well, you're the best. That's not just my opinion, either, that's a cold hard fucking fact. And I'm giving you an order that, whatever happens, you'll make sure the _Enterprise --"_

"Oh, for God's sake," Bones snapped, stepping forward. He marched up to Jim and fisted two hands in his shiny gold uniform, yanking the fabric down and kissing him. Jim responded quickly, hands snaking up McCoy's back. Bones let go of the uniform with one hand to tangle it in Jim's hair. They kissed hot and hard and only pulled away when they both ran out of breath.

Jim pulled back, panting, and ran a hand through his messy hair. Bones was peripherally aware of a few of the ensigns staring at the two of them in shock, though the bridge crew looked largely unsurprised. Uhura's eyes were a little wet.

Scotty let out a low wolf whistle.

"Bones, I--" Jim began, not looking anywhere but him.

"Yeah," Bones cut him off steadily. "I got it, kid. Don't worry."

Jim nodded once, succinctly.

"Oh, and Jim?" Bones said. "Before you go off on another one of your "go on without me" speeches, just so you know, we're going to get you back. As soon as your band of merry morons cobbles a plan together we're going to save your ass. So do us all a favour and try not get yourself killed between now and then and waste a lot of hard work, alright?"

Jim grinned.

"Now," Bones said gruffly. "Get over there before you make a bigger fool of yourself than you already have."

Jim obliged, stepping onto the landing pad. He looked at each member of his crew with a steady gaze, and then snapped a salute.

"Energize," He barked, and disappeared in a whirl of gold and light.

* * *

_I eat reviews for breakfast. And you know they say that's the most important meal of the day._


	10. Sleet, Stipulation, Volcano

_Warnings: Language, bullshit medical practices, proving once again that I can't write Bones without all of his gooey marshmallow filling leaking out. Contains Knitting!Uhura. Because I like it. Spock/Uhura, if you like. Sappy warning.  
_

_A/N: "Sleet" is set in the same verse as "Plaster," to indirectly explain where Kirk got that knitting needle._

_

* * *

_

_Sleet_

Nyota finds knitting relaxing. The movement is as repetitive and soothing as the waves of the ocean, and her mind can wander, thinking about languages or missions or nothing at all. Plus, it reminds her of her grandmother, hot chocolate spiced with nutmeg and waking up early on holiday mornings.

Not to mention, the needles are damn good for stabbing purposes.

She's making mittens now, dark blue ones the colour of twilight skies. They're for Spock. She knows his Vulcan biology isn't really suited to the chilly weather of San Francisco, and his long fingers get cold.

She's alone, quietly enjoying herself in a little-used room on the _Enterprise_, when Kirk wanders in.

Nyota doesn't pause in her knitting but looks up and glares at him, daring him to say something. She doesn't know how he found her or if he even knew she was in here when he stumbled in, but it's _Kirk_, so she has her suspicions.

"Whatcha doin'?" He asks cheerfully as he approaches, as if everybody walked into this storage room all the time.

"Knitting," She says flatly, and the _what does it look like?_ is silent but perfectly clear.

"Oh. What is it?" He asks, gesturing at the shapeless dark blue mass on her lap and dropping to the floor to sit lotus before her.

"They're mittens," She answers, needles clicking.

"Ah," He says intelligently. And then he grins suggestively, "You know, there are better ways to keep your hands warm."

Nyota doesn't even bother to look up. She has learned, since Kirk has become her captain, not to take comments like that seriously. Kirk throws them out with no real intent behind them. She knows by now that the captain respects her, and even that he would risk his life for her. He's only teasing.

And if anyone _else_ ever tried to say to her half the things he does, Kirk would personally pull all their fingers out of their sockets one by one.

"They're for Spock," She says. Before he can say something evocative about _that,_ however, she finally looks up and fixes him with a milder version of her death glare. He is Kirk, but she is still Uhura.

Kirk isn't about to make any innuendo, though. Instead, he's staring at the misshapen pile of yarn in her lap with fascination.

"Oh, cool," He says, and she is surprised by the amount of sincerity in his tone. "That's a really awesome gift."

He pokes the ball of soft evening-blue yarn with one finger, adding off-handedly, "No one's ever made me anything before."

Uhura's needles falter at his words but she recovers quickly, with only a mild hitch in her rhythm.

They continue their friendly conversation (or mocking, though it's really the same thing), Uhura surreptitiously studying Kirk from beneath her lashes. He is batting the ball of yarn from hand to hand absent-mindedly. She has the brief, absurd image of him as a kitten, all velvety fur and too-sharp teeth, clawing at the world.

But what she is mostly thinking about is the roll of downy mustard-yellow thread she has in her quarters, the same colour as his captain's uniform. Or maybe a light, sky blue...

A while later they're on Gamma VIII, and the sky is dropping bucket-loads of something that is not quite rain and not quite snow; a harsh, bitter sleet that soaks through every layer straight down to the bone.

Peeking out beneath the captain's regulation arctic hood is the lumpy, fuzzy mess of a home-made scarf.

And amid the sleet Uhura feels warm.

* * *

_Stipulation_

"It's my party," Jim said with a pout. "I wanna go."

"Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a baby-sitter." Bones growled. "Would it kill you to act your age?"

Really, the bash the Elysions were throwing held very little danger. But Bones couldn't help but remember the _last _party Jim went to that held 'very little danger,' and ended with Bones reattaching four of Jim's fingers.

"Pleeeease," Jim whined, eyes wide and bright.

At that moment a rather unhelpful part of Bones' brain pointed out that Jim had _never had a birthday party growing up_, and would it really be so bad?

Bones resolved to drown that part of his brain in alcohol at the soonest possible opportunity.

"Fine," He acquiesced with a scowl. "But under one condition."

* * *

Jim had not been happy to find out that Bones would only clear him from medical to go to the party -- it was a measly little party, for chrissakes, they were supposed to be _fun --_ if he had an entire contingent of _Enterprise_ officers acting as his own personal bodyguards.

He had a reputation, for fuck's sake.

But then the bodyguards had turned out to be a good portion of his bridge crew and an even larger portion of his friends, and Chekov was steadily drinking Sulu under the table.

And Scotty was unsuccessfully flirting with the strange but wondrously attractive silver-skinned women.

And Uhura was dancing in a way he had always suspected she could move but had yet to witness for himself.

And Bones was glaring at everyone with suspicion and drinking more than was strictly healthy and recounting the biggest and best and most unbelievable of their academy adventures to a rapt audience (Jim had to join in when he began on the time with the two-headed dog and the motorcycle and the hooker-pizza place, because Bones always told it wrong).

And Kirk was forming clever plans that would elicit the emotional response he was looking for from Spock, and almost succeeding, too.

And when they all ended up in the same quiet corner as the night was almost done, watching some ancient holovid, Chekov falling to sleep on Kirk's shoulder and Kirk keeping warm with Spock's body heat, because the Vulcan was squished between him and a mostly-unconscious Scotty, and Uhura smiling at him and Bones grumbling in the way that meant he was happy and Sulu tangled up in Kirk's legs on the floor because he seemed unable to stand on his feet.

Well, that was one compromise he was willing to make.

* * *

_Volcano_

**McCoy has rules for when the captain is in the sickbay.**

The medical bay was in chaos, everywhere was a bedlam of frantic nurses and moaning patients. Something about an away mission and an unexpected explosion.

Nurse Eliza Dovi was rushing about from trauma to trauma, doing what she could, when she spotted an all too familiar golden-shirted form laying crumpled across a stretcher.

She rushed over him and began her triage.

**Rule #6: Unless circumstances absolutely permit, Captain Kirk should be treated by CMO McCoy.**

Shit. It was bad. Not the worst, granted, but still bad. The captain's body was peppered with shrapnel, and he was out cold.

"Where's McCoy?" Dovi snapped, the captain's blood welling up between the chalky white of her gloves.

"He's busy stabilizing Ensign Richards!" A passing nurse in stained scrubs shouted back.

Dovi swore under her breath.

"Fuck."

**Rule #5: If CMO McCoy is incapable of providing treatment, then treatment responsibility should be given to Nurse Christine Chapel.**

"Chapel?" Dovi asked, desperately trying to assess Kirk's situation and find out what to do first.

"Kori just flat-lined, she's dealing with it!" Someone answered.

"Double fuck."

**Rule #4: If you absolutely must treat Captain Kirk, make certain you review the list of allergies in his medical file.**

"Okay, okay," Dovi breathed. "I can do this."

She pulled up the relevant information on her PADD, leaving bloody fingerprints on the plastic. Avoiding the flashing notices declaring UNAUTHORIZED and RESTRICTED, she pulled up the captain's allergy information.

She scrolled down.

And scrolled.

And scrolled.

Fuck! The thing was longer than the complete guide to Starfleet regulations.

**Rule #3: If absolutely necessary, disregard Rule 4 when the captain's well-being depends on quick treatment in which time constraints prevent complete review of his medical file.**

Dovi let the PADD drop with a slap onto the table, and turned back to Captain Kirk's unconscious form.

His skin was broken, shards of plastic and metal buried under it. Blood was leaking over his skin in a thin film.

Dovi swallowed whatever it was that was catching in her throat and got to work.

His injuries weren't life-threatening, or at least, they didn't appear to be so and the tricorder was keeping mum on the matter.

Alright. Alright. The shrapnel needed to come out, obviously, but Dovi was afraid that some pieces might have punctured veins, and withdrawing them would result in Kirk losing too much blood.

She'd have to do this one at a time, then.

Dovi swallowed hard. It was a good thing the captain was unconscious. She wasn't sure what painkiller she could give him that wouldn't kill _him _along with the pain.

Dovi grabbed what she needed and got down to work.

She pulled the shards out one by one, starting with his left wrist and working her way up. Blood swamped the little wells that were left by the removed pieces, and overflowed onto the captain's too-white skin.

She monitored his vitals, trying to make sure he stayed _alive_.

She finished with his left arm, stitching and bandaging as she went, adding antibiotics where she dared, and started on his left. It was all going fine.

And then the captain woke up.

**Rule #2: Don't kill the captain.**

She was first aware of his consciousness when all the blood drained out of his face, leaving it milky white. His throat tightened visibly and then his eyes snapped open, scanning around frantically. He didn't scream, but his muscles spasmed all at once, fingers clenching into fists.

He tried to get up and Dovi pushed him back down.

"Shit, no, captain, stay down, you can't move," She cried out desperately.

She could see his jaw working, and then his cupid's bow lips opened and something that wasn't quite a moan slipped out.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I know this has to hurt. I don't know what to give you for the pain. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." She whispered, trying to soothe him without exacerbating his injuries.

The captain weakly raised his hands to try to shove her off, words forming soundlessly on his lips. He thrashed, and the blood began flowing freely.

"Fuck!" Dovi cried, scrambling for a hypo. She had no choice, she had to give him something before he hurt himself further.

She looked into his desperate, hurting blue eyes and pressed the hypo into his neck.

Kirk collapsed bonelessly back onto the stretcher, strength pouring out of his muscles. His eyelids slipped down over his agony-filled eyes and Dovi slumped back, breathing harshly.

She moved to continue removing the shrapnel when Captain Kirk went stiff as a board and his muscles started writhing. He jerked and shook on the stretcher, eyes rolling beneath his lids, shuddering like a drowning victim.

**Rule #1: If you _do_ kill the captain, CMO McCoy reserves the right to kill _you._**

"What the hell is going on?!" McCoy roared, appearing out of nowhere behind Dovi's shoulder as she tried frantically to stop Kirk's seizing.

He shoved her out of the way, holding the captain down bodily and scrambling for a hypo.

"What did you give him?" McCoy snapped over his shoulder.

"I--I just--" Dovi floundered.

"_What did you give him?!"_ The doctor yelled.

"A painkiller," She whispered. "Just a pain killer. Standard nepenthin."

McCoy's eyes darkened and he turned back to the arresting captain, grabbing the proper hypo and stabbing it into his neck.

Abruptly, the captain's body fell still.

The CMO checked over his vitals, listening for longer than was strictly necessary to his beating heart, before wiping a hand over his brow and dropping back with a sigh.

"He was hurting," Dovi explained numbly, though McCoy wasn't looking anywhere near her. "He was hurting and I just wanted to make it stop."

He turned to her then, and looked at her, all bottled rage. He reminded her of the volcanoes of her home planet, ready to erupt in fire and death and destruction at any moment.

Dovi swallowed, prepared to be buried in anger and ashes like an ancient Pompeii victim.

And then McCoy turned away, grabbing the captain's wrist gently with one hand so two of his fingers rested on Kirk's pulse.

"Yeah," The CMO muttered. "Me too."

* * *

_Writers are like delicate flowers, growing in a harsh desert. Reviews are like rain, or clear spring water, bringing them life-giving force and encouraging them to bloom and be fruitful. And reviewers are like, uh, watering cans, not the cheap plastic kind you get at the dollar store but the really nice metal ones that last a while, unless they start to rust, but then I guess they weren't that nice and... fuck, that metaphor kind of fell apart._

_Oh, gardeners! Should've said reviewers are like gardeners. Right. The sexy kind that have steamy affairs with attractive but neurotic housewives... I'm not good at metaphors, okay? Just review, please.  
_


	11. Lovely

_Disclaimer: Ingen._

_**Warnings! Serious Warnings! Really!: **__Profanity, sexual situations including masturbation, sexual violence, and other sensitive themes. As well as bucket-loads of crazy. Dark. Please use discretion. _

_If anyone thinks I need to up the rating, please let me know._

_Also, features Detective!SpockandBones. Because I watch too many movies._

_Also, kind of cliche.  
_

_Also, long. Like, really long.  
_

_AN: You know, "lovely" used to be one of my favourite words. Then I had to go and ruin it for myself. This one's... weird. Bad weird. I'm really not happy with it, but I've read it over so many times trying to figure out how to fix it that it's lost all meaning to me and is now just a jumble of words. Damn. I've decided to just post it because if I obsess over it anymore I'll go crazy. So, apologies if it's kind of lackluster. I can't even tell anymore.  
_

_Working on a follow-up piece for this focusing less on hurt and more on comfort.  
_

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed!  
_

_

* * *

_

_Lovely_

The first time Stewart sees Captain James Tiberius Kirk is a little bit like the first time he fucked a girl, or his first snowfall (when the world was soft and white and clean), or like the first drag off of a cigarette. Like for just a moment, just one instant, everything in the universe was perfect.

He's been transferred onto the _Enterprise_ less than a week, when the captain comes swaggering into the botany labs.

Stewart's heard the rumours of course. About how the captain was a hero and a womanizer and a rebel. He's overheard a few of the female scientists giggling about his good-looks, and a couple of the male ones, too. But none of that really compares to the first time Jim walks into the room.

It's like someone tore down the hull of the _Enterprise_ to let the sun shine through. Stewart feels his breath catch in his throat.

The captain makes his way through the lab slowly, stopping to talk to everybody he passes, going over their work and making sure he leaves them all with smiles on their faces. His first officer, the Vulcan, trails behind him with his hands clasped behind his back.

Stewart tries hard to focus on his work, carefully dissecting the spidery leaf of the Elysion Moon Lily, but he keeps sneaking glances at the captain. Eventually his scalpel slips and severs the plant, silvery-white sap leaking out and spilling slowly over the table.

Cursing under his breath, Stewart reaches for another sample, and knocks over a potted _flosculus nivosus._

An unexpected hand darts out and catches the ceramic pot just before it can shatter upon the floor.

Smiling, Captain Kirk hands Stewart the plant.

"Careful," He says kindly. "These things are pretty slippery."

Stewart reaches out with shaking hands to take it from him. He sees for the first time up close how blue the captain's eyes are, staring into his with utter confidence.

"I'm Captain Jim Kirk," the man introduces himself unnecessarily. "You must be one of the new transfers, I haven't seen you around."

It takes Stewart a moment to realize he's supposed to introduce himself then, and he blushes and flounders. "I'm Stewart. Uh, Dr. Stewart Jude, that is. Nice to meet you. Uh, captain. Sir."

Kirk grins and waves a dismissive hand. His smile is lovely and earnest. Stewart counts the perfect white teeth in the flash that he sees them, studying the way the captain's pink lips pull over them.

"Don't bother with the 'sir' stuff," Kirk says cheerfully. "You can call me Jim."

"Um, alright, sir. I mean--" Stewart fumbles.

Kirk laughs, but the sound contains no malice and instead falls like music on the air. "So, Dr. Jude, what are you working on over here?"

"Elysion Moon Lilies, sir-- sorry, Jim," He adds quickly at the slip. Kirk shakes his head and waves for him to continue. "And this one here's a _flosculus nivosus_, from Gamma VIII."

Kirk makes a noise of interest as he looks at the curling leaves. "So, what's it do?" He asks with curiosity.

"Um, nothing, really, sir. Jim." Stewart says sheepishly. "At least, not that we've been able to figure out."

"But," He adds quickly. "It'll bloom really beautifully if we get it at just the right temperature."

Kirk nods, absorbing the information. "Alright, Dr. Jude, sounds good. I'll confess that I know absolutely shit about plants, but s'long as you guys here in the science department keeping whipping up great stuff it's all good to me. Tell me, doctor, are you enjoying the _Enterprise_? No problems?"

"Yes, sir. Um, I mean, no, sir. Yes, I'm enjoying it. No, there's no problems." Stewart says in a rush.

Kirk smiles at him gently. "Okay, good. You can come to me if there ever are any issues, or if you just want someone to talk to, alright, doc?"

Stewart nods, tongue twisting up on itself. Kirk clasps a hand on his shoulder and he feels his flesh warm beneath the touch.

Kirk says his goodbyes and moves on down the lab. Stewart watches him go.

His legs feel shaky beneath him, like somebody had snuck up behind him and removed his bones when he wasn't looking, and he has to grab the counter-top to keep from collapsing to the floor.

* * *

It's a big ship, so Stewart is a little surprised at how often he sees the captain after that. Kirk seems to be everywhere at once.

He checks in with the science department irregularly, mostly leaving that up to his second-in-command or only stopping by when something _really_ interesting is going on. The times he is there, though, he seems to make a special effort to talk to Stewart.

Stewart can't talk to Jim without blushing. The captain always listens to every word he has to say, and seems genuinely interested in Stewart's opinions.

"I love plants," Stewart confesses one day, and then regrets it immediately because _God,_ what a stupid, stupid, stupid thing to say.

Jim only nods though.

"Sure," The captain says. "I can get that. If there's one thing you botany guys have taught me is that these little buggers can be dead useful at times. I mean, plants are used in medicine and technology and everything in between." He continues, gesturing emphatically with one hand as he gets caught up in his words. Stewart watches, mesmerized.

"Hell, they've even saved my life once or twice before," Jim adds with a chuckle, stroking the fleshy leaf of the _aloe caeruleus. _It shivers beneath his touch.

Stewart sinks his fingers into the damp soil of the potted Diruvian Sunrise Carnation to hide his quivering hands, ostensibly checking the roots. The nutrient-enriched loam burrows its way beneath his fingernails and clings in the ridges of his skin.

"Plus, they're really beautiful," Stewart says softly, carefully studying the wavy ridges of the carnations. "The flowers, I mean."

His eyes flick up to the captain's. "Really beautiful."

He ducks his head back down to stare at the fire-coloured flowers of the carnation, the way the petals delicately folded back on themselves and wrinkled up into lace.

Jim nods and smiles. "Yeah, they are, aren't they?" He says with a shrug.

He excuses himself and exits. Stewart watches him leave with his mouth bone-dry, swallowing harshly.

* * *

It's not just in the labs, either, that Stewart sees Jim. The captain's always walking the _Enterprise's_ halls, or taking his lunch in the mess hall with the rest of his crew, or playing pick-up games in the rec rooms with them. He's always there, always smiling, always eager to listen or give advice or help.

The captain doesn't really have a set-schedule, but Stewart has figured out his habits, a bit. He tries to be in the same room as the captain as often as he can. He eats at around the same time Jim usually does, and he's gotten in the habit of spending time in the rec rooms on the evenings when Jim usually isn't busy with command stuff.

He doesn't really talk to the captain all that much, God no. But he's content to just hover in the peripherals and just _witness_ Kirk's very existence. He's happy enough just watching his little bit of sunshine in the cold, dark trenches of space.

He's moving things around in his quarters one day, trying to find just the right balance of order, when he uncovers his camera. He'd bought it on a strange flash of spontaneity, entertaining the fancy that he'd be able to capture all of the lovely plants he'd discover in the far corners of the universe. The latest commercial technology makes it tiny enough to hide behind his pinky finger.

He scrolls through the camera's memory, looking at the holopics of the long, twisted stalks of the recently-discovered Dawson's Orchids, the close-knit clumps of tiny pink _aliquantulus artus_, the giant blue flowers with petals like octopi tentacles from Zeta Mu. They're beautiful, so beautiful, each and every one of them. Stewart collects the images like trophies because he doesn't trust his memory, and doesn't want something so lovely to be gone forever.

Stewart hesitates only a moment before glancing at the clock. It's 8:15 on a Wednesday. Barring unforeseen circumstances, the captain would probably be playing chess with Commander Spock in the starboard recreation hall.

Pocketing the camera, Stewart heads in that direction.

* * *

Stewart's door is locked and all the lights in his room are off.

_Perfect smooth skin, the firm curvature of the muscles just below. Touching, oh how he wants to touch..._

He can hear his own breathing in the darkness, harsh and quickening.

_The smooth bent neck, soft and delicate, flexing beneath his hands. Blood-filled veins hidden just below the surface, feeling them pulse under his fingers._

Stewart's pupils are dilated, his skin sweating in sticky glistening drops.

_Dark spider-webbing of lashes, blue eyes, like Tragodian Roses, wet and bright beneath them._

He scans through the latest holopics, fingers trembling.

_The pink lips and warm, wet mouth. Kissing them, feeling you surrender beneath him, bruising the soft flesh with his teeth._

His dark slacks pool at his feet.

_Golden hair tousled and messy, darkened with sweat, threading his fingers through it tightly._

Stewart eases his hands downwards and closes his eyes briefly at his own touch.

_Rapid breath and sweat beading on your skin, bodies slick, moving faster and faster._

The holopics cast a dull blue glow across his room, his shadow wavering in the phosphorescence.

_Stroking, petting, trailing fingers over skin, tracing the outline of collarbones and each rib with his tongue._

He quickens.

_And goes harder, harsher, deeper; soft cries from beneath him_

Stewart moans lowly.

_Quiet whimpers, and the sound of flesh on flesh _

He moves faster

_and faster _

Hands tightening

_gripping, digging into yielding flesh, bruising_

Lips parted and from deep in his throat there comes

_Moaning, crying, screaming, begging_

Eyes wide

_open looking at him, looking up at him, soulful and liquid and heady_

He shudders

_and writhes and fights and your back arches and muscles heave _

And gasping

_breathing, not breathing, choking, tears falling down your face in wet salty stripes tasting each one on his tongue_

Quietly

_but no one can hear, oh, no one can hear, be as loud as you want, scream out_

Stewart

_touches you, whispers in your ear that he's loved you all along_

Comes

_with a harsh cry and you break _

His eyes open

_He looks at you, can't stop looking at you, you're perfect, oh, so perfect_

And then in the darkness

_and you are so, so _

Everything is

_Lovely._

* * *

"What's on your mind, Jim?" Bones asks, watching Jim carve canals into his food with his wandering fork.

Jim starts, fork scraping the sides of his replicated steak. "Me? Nothing," He says evenly.

Bones snorts. "Yeah. Sure. Look kid, you've been tensed-up and weird all day. What is it?"

"The doctor is right," Spock adds when Jim remains silent. "You have been not been acting in accordance with your usual character as of late."

Jim sighs, balancing his fork on the edge of his plate. "It's just... do you ever get the feeling somebody's watching you?"

Bones snorts, scraping some vegetables onto Jim's plate, "Jim, you live in an enclosed space with four hundred other people. Of course it feels like somebody's watching you."

"In addition, Jim, you do have a propensity for engaging in activities and behaviours that make you unusually noticeable." Spock points out.

"Mr. Spock," The captain asks, pretending to be affronted. "Are you saying that I'm _flashy?"_

"He's saying that you stick out like an ass at the derby with all the stunts you pull," Bones says, rolling his eyes. Spock inclines his head in agreement.

Jim laughs, picking his fork back up. "I suppose you're both right," He concedes.

"That said, Jim, your instincts are usually pretty dead-on. Do you really think something's up?" Bones asks.

Jim shakes his head. "Nah. I'm probably just being paranoid."

"You're certain, captain?" Spock questions.

Jim smiles. "Yeah, guys, I'm sure. Don't worry about it."

* * *

Jim takes a deep breath of the cold San Francisco air, tasting the ocean on his tongue. The well-timed shore-leave on earth was going to give his crew time to rest and recuperate from the latest series of grueling missions they'd had.

"So, I'll be back here in three days," Bones says, rubbing his hands together in the chill.

"Yes, Bones," Jim agrees.

"You better not do anything stupid between now and then," He continues.

"Yes, Bones," Jim says.

"And wear your jacket. It's fucking cold here. With your luck you'll get pneumonia or hypothermia or delta influenza or frostbite and half your fingers will fall off, and don't think I'm going to be the one to pull you back together again. This is my _vacation._" Bones adds.

"Bones, I get it." Jim rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to get myself killed just because you're not there to watch me for a couple of days."

"Three days." Bones corrects. "And don't touch anything that even looks like you might be allergic to it."

"_Go_, Bones," Jim says. "Get on that shuttle and go see your daughter."

"And for God's sake, stay out of any of your ridiculous bar fights. Actually, just stay out of bars and fights altogether." Bones demands.

"I'll be _fine_. Get going already." Jim reassures. "Seriously. That's an order."

"Don't pull rank with _me_, kid," Bones grumbles.

"Goodbye, Bones," Jim says patiently, waving his hand. Bones gives him a different gesture. Jim laughs.

He watches the doctor push his way through the crowd, snapping and shoving, before he disappears. Then Jim turns to Spock.

"So, I have to go compare dicks with Starfleet brass for the rest of the afternoon. How about you?" Jim asks.

Spock blinks, once, but chooses to ignore Jim's colloquialisms and says, "I have agreed to meet Nyota for lunch at a restaurant near the ocean that she appears to favor."

"Ah. Well, if you're not opposed to going out twice, maybe we could get together for drinks? I know of a really good bar here. Actually, I know of lots of really good bars here." Jim invites.

"I would not be opposed to such an arrangement." Spock agrees.

"Great." Jim says, stamping his feet in the cold. "Eight o'clock work for you?"

"That would be acceptable," Spock says. "In which establishment would you prefer to convene?"

Jim gives him directions to a bar with a flexible drink menu and they part ways. He watches Spock fade into the crowd and then heads towards his Starfleet debriefing.

As he walks, Jim looks up at the familiar gray sky and smiles.

* * *

Jim sighs, rolling his neck in a futile attempt to chase the crick out of it. Some of the assholes in the upper ranks of Starfleet have a real talent for getting on his nerves.

What with his standing as the youngest captain of Starfleet, coupled with his reputation as something of a maverick, Jim is almost used to the scrutiny he and all of his decisions are placed under. Almost. Still, it gets old quickly. Now, after showering off the stench of Starfleet pomp and circumstance and changing into his civvies, he is more than ready to just enjoy the rest of his shore-leave with some good old R&R and time with his friends.

He checks his watch. He has almost three hours before he had to meet Spock.

Just as Jim is deciding how best to kill his time, a voice calls out his name.

"Jim!" He turns towards the noise and sees a man approaching him.

"Hi," The man says with a shy smile. Jim recognizes him as an _Enterprise_ officer in the science department. Jude, his brain supplies.

"Hello," Jim says, politely. "Dr. Jude. Are you enjoying your shore-leave so far?"

"Yes, sir -- I mean, Jim -- thank you." Jude says, face flushed. "Hey, I was wondering if, maybe, you wanted to get a drink or something?" Jude asks hesitantly.

Jim pauses. He has pretty firm rules regarding his relationships with his crewmembers. Not to mention, he really isn't that interested.

"Thank you, doctor, for the offer. But I'm afraid as your captain it would be inappropriate." Jim says gently.

"Oh!" Jude says, face blushing darker. "Oh, I didn't mean, I mean, well, no ... just as friends?"

Jim hesitates.

Jude looks at him with timid eyes. Jim feels a pang of sympathy for him. The doctor hasn't been working on the _Enterprise_ for long, it's possible he hasn't really made any friends and didn't have any family on earth that he could visit. The guy was probably just lonely and looking for somebody to share it with.

It was just a friendly drink with a crewmember, what could be the harm?

"Sure," Jim says, smiling. "That'd be fine."

Jude's face breaks out into a grin.

* * *

"So," Jim begins when Jude brings back their drinks and slides into the booth across from him. He's requested something relatively non-alcoholic, since he's still planning on drinking with Spock, and picks the pale blue concoction off of the tray as Jude sets it down. "D'you have any family here, doctor?"

Jude shakes his head. "You, uh, can call me Stewart, by the way. Doctor's a little formal." He says.

Jim nods. "Fine by me." He agrees, smiling. Jim takes a long sip of his drink, enjoying the exotic taste, sweet and tart.

"Got anything exciting planned for leave?" Jim asks.

"Not really," Stewart says, studying him. "What about you?"

"Nah, I'm mostly going to trying to avoid the excitement, honestly," Jim responds, taking another swing. "Though with my luck, that's doubtful," He adds with a smile.

Stewart smiles timorously.

The conversation continues slowly, and Jim feels peculiarly light-headed. The colours of the bar are blurring. It's strange. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, and everything lurches.

There wasn't that much alcohol in his drink. Jim knows this, rationally. He tries to focus on the thought and it flutters away from him.

"Jim?" Stewart asks quietly, leaning over the table to rest a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I..." Jim begins, and his tongue feels heavy. "I'm..."

Stewart's hand doesn't leave his shoulder, but slides up slowly to cup his throat.

"Jim," Stewart whispers hoarsely. "God, you're breath-taking,"

"Wha--" Jim begins, and Stewart's features twist like Jim's looking at his reflection in a funhouse mirror.

Slowly Stewart's hand skims down Jim's chest to rest on the table. Then Stewart gets up, crossing to Jim's side of the booth.

"I think you've had a bit too much," Stewart says kindly, crouching to sling Jim's arm over his shoulder.

"I haven't..." Jim tries but can't get the words to obey him.

"Come on," Stewart commands, straightening up and taking Jim with him. Jim's head lolls back on his shoulder, and Stewart shudders as Jim's breath falls on his skin.

"Don't..." Jim gets out weakly.

"Shh," Stewart says. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay," He promises.

Jim stumbles as they walk and the room spins and smudges around him. Stewart is holding him tightly, body warm and close. He tries to pull away but his muscles rebel and his eyes fog up.

Things get darker and dimmer and then there is nothing.

* * *

Jim's drugged body is heavy, and Stewart struggles a bit under the weight. He manages to get Jim into a taxi and all the way up the motel room he'd rented earlier, however.

Gently, he lays Jim's sleeping form on the bed, pausing for just a moment and stepping back to admire him. His heart aches at the sight.

Stewart sits on the bed next to Jim, trailing a few fingers lightly down the length of his jaw. Jim's chest rises and falls steadily with every breath, body lax and peaceful. He looks younger when he is asleep, still painfully beautiful. Stewart brushes his fingers back through Jim's hair tenderly.

He crawls onto the bed, swinging his leg over Jim's form so he is straddling him. The captain doesn't stir. His fingers outline the curves of Jim's lips before sliding off to the side, making room for his mouth to descend. Delicately, he presses his lips against Jim's, kissing the soft unresponsive skin.

A low moan escapes from Stewart's mouth and dissolves against Jim's.

Stewart pulls back, eyes closed. His hand glides down Jim's neck, fingers curling under the neckline of his captain's t-shirt.

Pulling Jim's body up to lean against his, he carefully manipulates him out of the shirt. Stewart's breathing shudders to a halt at the sight of the perfectly sculpted muscles and tanned skin. The t-shirt falls to the ground unnoticed and slowly Stewart begins his tactile exploration of every inch of Jim's exposed skin.

After a while, he skims over the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath Jim's jeans and his fingers follow it down, brushing against the denim. Stewart scoots down Jim's legs to give himself room and then slowly, ever so slowly, unbuttons the jeans. Fingers trembling, he slides the zipper down. He pulls Jim's pants down, breath quickening at every new inch of skin that comes into view, until the denims catch on Jim's shoes.

Scrambling off of Jim, Stewart moves to the foot of the bed and unties each shoe, pulling them off and letting them drop to the floor with quiet thumps. He rolls off Jim's socks and then tugs his jeans all the way off.

Stewart stares at the view of perfection in front of him and for a moment forgets to breathe.

Jim is stripped of everything except his underwear, the last barrier. Stewart's hands skim over the last scrap of clothing, desperation in his touch, and then halt.

He draws back, breathing harshly. He wants, he wants _so very much_ to take what he craves right now. But Jim is still sleeping soundly, and Stewart wants to see those blue eyes open beneath him, wants to feel him move, wants to hear whatever lovely noises he will make.

For that he will wait.

Stewart makes sure to secure Jim to the bed, in case he was confused when he woke up and panicked and hurt himself.

_They were always confused when they woke up._

Then he steps back from the bed and grabs a chair, turning it to face the sleeping angel in his room. He sinks into the chair with a heavy exhale, settling back to watch.

Eventually, after an eternity or two has passed, he is rewarded with the sight of Jim struggling to wake.

* * *

Jim wakes slowly.

His eyelids are glued together and by some strange alchemy his muscles have turned to lead. His mouth is dry and bitter.

There is a high, dull roar in his ears.

_God, what did I drink last night_?

The coherency feels alien in his mind.

Slowly, Jim peels his eyes open.

The unfamiliar bedroom shivers around him like a dog shaking off water, and he blinks a few times until his vision steadies.

Things are muggy. Jim can't get his mind to steady. He closes his eyes again and they stay down.

The mattress shifts as someone settles on it, and Jim is aware of a presence just above him. He can feel the warmth of their body heat and the brush of their skin. He can't seem to make his own body obey him.

Unfamiliar fingers graze down his sides, feather-light, and then slide beneath the elastic of his underwear. The hands hook beneath the fabric and pull it down, fingernails scraping lightly across his thighs. His legs are lifted slightly to release the material and then Jim is completely naked.

Another sudden shift of the mattress and the presence is gone.

Sweat breaks out on his bare skin, cooling in the air.

Jim forces his eyes open.

He's lying on a bed, stripped of everything except its bottom sheet. Jim tries to heave himself into sitting and is stopped by sudden pressure on his wrists. He looks to the sides. He's handcuffed to the headboard. Jim gives an experimental tug and the handcuffs rattle but don't give an inch. The flesh on his wrists sinks into valleys beneath the metal from his pulling.

Jim almost wishes he hadn't opened his eyes.

Craning his neck, head heavy, he looks around the room. Someone is standing in the shadows at the foot of the bed, watching him.

"Dr. Jude," Jim says hoarsely, the words like glass and gravel in his throat. "What are you doing?"

Jude says nothing but takes a step closer to the bed. He's clutching a piece of dark blue cloth in his hands, which Jim recognizes as the boxer briefs he put on that morning. His fingers are lightly working the material. Jim can hear him breathing from here.

Goose pimples break out over his skin.

Jim's Oh-Shit meter is extremely accurate, and right now it's reading off the charts.

_Shit,_ he thinks. _Oh, shit._

"Oh, god, _Jim,"_ Jude breathes out, pupils engorged. "I know you probably hear this all the time, but you're _beautiful."_

Jim stares. Clearing his throat, he says gently, "Dr. Jude -- _Stewart_ -- Where am I?"

Stewart moves even closer, his head bowed, but slowly he looks up and stares at Jim beseechingly.

"I've loved you for so long. It feels like forever." He confesses in a rush, cheeks pink. "Ever since I first saw you. You were so _nice_ to me."

Jim swallows hard.

"A lot of times," Stewart continues. "People aren't very nice to me. They can be... cruel." His fingers tighten on Jim's underwear, knuckles white. "That's why I like flowers. Because they're beautiful and helpful and they never hurt you."

"But _you_, Jim" Stewart says, eyes raking over Jim's naked form. Jim can feel his skin crawl. _Oh, God. _"You're lovelier than any flower."

"I watched you, you know. On the ship. I was wherever you were. I followed you around and I witnessed what I had always known... you are _perfect_, Jim. You're so pretty and kind and brave. How could I not fall in love with you?" Stewart asks. Jim's throat is dry.

Stewart was _watching_ him. _Following _him. On his own ship. In his _home_. The one place in the entire universe Jim always feels he is safe.

Turns out he isn't.

"Stewart," Jim says, licking his dry lips. "You need to let me out of these handcuffs. Right now," He says firmly but softly. "You've kidnapped a starship captain. That's a serious offense. But I can help you out if you... if you just let me go."

Stewart stiffens. "I haven't committed any _offense. _I _love _you, Jim."

"Stewart," Jim says. "Look, I think there's been some confusion. I'm sorry, but since I'm your captain I'm afraid I can't... I can't have a relationship with you. It wouldn't be appropriate. I would be," Jim chokes. "_taking advantage_ of you."

"Just... just let me out of these cuffs and maybe we can discuss this, Stewart," Jim says, when Stewart stays silent, just watching him. "Just let me out, please."

"I think," Stewart answers slowly. "If I let you out you'll run. They always run. You're _confused_, Jim."

Jim shakes his head frantically. "I'm not confused. I just think that it'd be better if I wasn't tied down right now. I won't run," Jim promises, thinking, _goddammit, yes I will run, you crazy freak, I will run so fast..._. "You don't run away from the people you love, right? And you don't chain them up, either."

Stewart smiles when Jim says "love." For an instant, Jim thinks he's going to let him go, but then he shakes his head.

"Oh, Jim," Stewart says softly. "Let's just have this night together. Just this night, and then in the morning we can both go far, far away from here. We can both be free."

Jim can think of a lot of things he'd rather do than spend the night with Stewart. Sticking his head in a wood-chipper and eating hot coals are both higher on the list.

"I can't leave," Jim points out. "I have duties to my ship, you know. I'm captain. _Your_ captain. Your superior."

Stewart waves his hand dismissively. "You can leave your ship for _me_."

The thought of leaving the _Enterprise_ is sharp and acidic.

"No." He grinds out. "No, I can't, Stewart."

Stewart pauses, and his eyes narrow. Then he walks over to the head of the bed and sits down on the edge softly. One hand snakes out and rests lightly on Jim's bare chest. Jim flinches beneath the touch.

"We'll worry about that in the morning," Stewart says decisively. "Things will be different in the morning."

His hand slides downward.

"Don't _touch_ me," Jim snaps. Stewart's hand stills.

"As your captain I _order_ to let me go!" Jim yells, sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Stewart's fingernails sink into the skin of Jim's stomach.

"No," Stewart says softly. "No, Jim, I can't let you go."

His hand resumes its downward course and Jim flips.

"Get your hands _off_ of me, you sick fuck!" He cries out, bucking upwards. "Let me go!"

Stewart lurches up and backhands Jim across the mouth, snapping his head around and driving the side of his face into the mattress. Jim blinks in shock.

"You love me, Jim," Stewart says angrily. "Why are you acting like this?"

"Because you're a crazy freak who's kidnapped me!" Jim cries.

Stewart shakes his head violently, standing up. "I'm not _crazy._ I _love _you."

"Well, I don't love you, you bastard!" Jim gasps. "And you need to untie me and let me the fuck go!"

Stewart stills at Jim's words. "I can't let you go Jim. God, you're too beautiful to let go."

Stewart kneels on the bed and then swings one leg over Jim's torso, straddling him. His clothes scrape against Jim's naked skin. Both of his hands slide up to either side of Jim's face and his fingers knit into his hair.

Jim's eyes widen. "Please," He tries softly, switching directions. Stewart's weight is heavy on him. "Please let me go."

Stewart laughs softly. "Oh, Jim. _No_. I can't ever let you go._"_

And then Jim throws his head back and screams.

_"Help me! Somebody help me!"_ He cries out. _"Help! Some crazy fucker's kidnapped me and I--"_

Stewart slams an open palm over Jim's mouth, silencing him. His fingers cover Jim's mouth and nose and stay there and after a while _Jim can't breathe, oh god, he can't breathe..._

Jim's eyes dart around frantically, fingers scrabbling in the air and body heaving. Stewart eases his hand up only to curl it into a fist and punch Jim in the jaw.

"Be quiet!" He hisses. "Shut up!"

Jim falls back, head dizzy, gasping. The handcuffs rattle quietly.

Stewart yanks the discarded top sheet off of the floor, tearing strips off of it. He crumples one into a ball and shoves it into Jim's mouth.

Jim gags as the wad of fabric hits the back of his throat, choking. Stewart grabs another length of cloth and wraps it around Jim's head tightly. The fabric pulls in the corner of his mouth, chapped lips splitting.

Jim squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on just breathing through his nose, trying to calm his panic. The impromptu gag feels like it's slithering down the back of his throat, strangling him.

"You have to be _quiet_," Stewart repeats, desperately.

Reaching one quivering hand out, Stewart strokes the side of Jim's face. Jim follows the motion with wide terrified eyes and tries to pull away, but there's no where to go.

"I love you, Jim. You'll see." Stewart repeats, and then he bends down, kissing the curve where Jim's shoulder meets his throat. "I've loved you all along."

* * *

Spock sits motionless at the bar, resisting the urge to check the time again. He knows, logically, that very little time can have passed between now and when he last looked at the clock.

He stares at the mostly-untouched glass of water in front of him. The first time Jim had invited him for drinks, Spock had been reluctant. But Jim has taught him that "going for drinks" is, in fact, less about the drinks and more about spending time in the company of friends.

Of course, it helps if said friends are actually there with him. Jim, on the other hand, is nearly an hour late.

Once again, Spock tries to contact Jim's communicator. Once again, no one answers.

Spock resists the impulse to sigh.

"Looks like you've been stood up, buddy," The bartenders says sympathetically, collecting glasses from the bar top. "How 'bout one on the house?" He offers.

Spock shakes his head.

"No, thank you." He declines, dropping a few credits on the bar and rising from his seat.

The bartender shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Spock exits the bar into the cold San Francisco night, reflexively pulling his coat tighter. He catches the bus back to the Academy, where the _Enterprise _crew is currently boarding for their shore-leave.

Spock enters his quarters, flicking on the lights. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up neatly. Crossing to the replicator, he makes himself a cup of tea and then grabs a PADD, resigning himself to accomplishing some paperwork.

Spock sets his communicator down carefully on the coffee table, and then spends the next several hours alternating between refusing to look at it while irrationally hoping for Jim to call and attempting to contact the captain himself, only to receive no response.

Emotions, such as anger and frustration and hurt and rejection, attempt to well up within him, but Spock buries them back down before they can fully form.

It is anomalous for the captain to both miss their pre-determined meeting and then decline to contact Spock with a response. Another emotion, worry, begins to spread its fledgling wings, and Spock lets this one rise to the surface.

Finally, his tea cold, Spock snatches the communicator off the table with more force than is technically necessary.

He hesitates just a moment, before making his decision and contacting the person most likely to give him the answers he needs.

_"What do you want?" _McCoy's voice is gruff.

"Dr. McCoy," Spock greets. "Has Captain Kirk contacted you about any unexpected changes in his plans?"

McCoy pauses.

"_No. Why?"_ He asks suspiciously.

"The captain and I had a prior engagement," Spock explains. "We were expected to meet approximately four hours ago. However, the captain never arrived. He also has not responded to his communicator."

McCoy swears loudly, and then says hesitantly, "_Something could have come up..."_

"True," Spock acknowledges.

_"I mean, it's Jim."_ The doctor continues. "_Something always comes up..."_

"Yes," Spock agrees patiently.

_"It's entirely possible he got distracted by something shiny." _McCoy says.

"It is possible." Spock grants.

_"Jim's a big boy. He's only a few hours late, you said? I mean, come on. It's not like we all need to panic just because a grown man skips his date with his alien pal, is it?" _McCoy rationalizes. Spock waits.

_"Dammit, something's wrong, isn't it? I mean, it's _Jim." McCoy bursts out in exasperation.

"There is a possibility that something is amiss," Spock says.

_"Of course there is." _McCoy growls.

_"Okay, look_," The doctor sighs. _"Try and call the rest of the bridge crew and see if anybody's seen him. Hopefully we'll find out he's knee-deep in strippers and booze and we'll get to be thoroughly laughed at and mocked. I'll meet you at his quarters, okay?"_

"I would have expected your shuttle to have arrived in Georgia, already, doctor," Spock says, surprised.

_"Yeah, well, turns out some _morons_ called in a bomb threat and no shuttles are entering or leaving until it's all sorted out. Lucky me." _McCoy snorts derisively. _"I'll see you in half an hour."_

"Agreed, doctor." Spock says. The communicator shuts off with a hiss.

* * *

Half an hour later, Spock and Bones shut the door to Jim's residence, having thus far been unsuccessful in their search.

"Well, he's clearly not here," Bones grumbles. "But no surprise really. When are things ever easy with Jim?"

Spock chooses not to answer that question.

"It's like he's disappeared off the fucking planet. Nobody's seen him since his meeting with the Starfleet high muckety-mucks. I would've expected him to be getting into some high-profile trouble by now." Bones says.

"It does seem out of character for Jim not to be socializing with his crew," Spock muses.

"Guess we're just going to have to start combing the city," McCoy states, rubbing his temples. "Call everybody again and see if they've stumbled upon him. Make sure they know to contact you or me if they come across anything."

Spock obliges.

After a brief round of communication, the two still have no new information. The rest of the bridge crew, however, are each becoming more unsettled as they hear Spock and McCoy's worry.

"Starfleet's not going to do anything until he's been missing at least a day," Bones points out. "And besides, we don't really want to pull out the big guns until we know for sure something's wrong, lest we get all our asses in trouble."

"I believe your next suggestion was to "comb the city," doctor?" Spock says.

"Yeah, c'mon. I know most of Jim's usual haunts from his academy days. We'll start there." Bones strides off, muttering something unsavoury under his breath, and Spock follows.

* * *

Jim is fighting and thrashing but Stewart's body is draped across him, pressed against his naked skin, and the angles are all wrong and Jim can't get any leverage. His joints feel like their pulling out of their sockets as he pulls against the handcuffs.

Stewart's skimming down Jim's throat with his wet open mouth, fingers digging into Jim's hips.

Muffled cries work their way out around Jim's gag, the only remnants of his shouted curses and screams. His throat is hoarse.

Stewart slides downward, his tongue tracing down the length of Jim's sternum. He reaches one hand up and scratches down Jim's chest, fingernails nicking the skin above his rapidly-beating heart. He brushes a thumb over Jim's nipple, moaning as the sensitive skin tautens in response.

Jim's spine curves as his back arches upwards, chest heaving. His wrists are bleeding by now, he can feel the tacky warmth dripping in itchy streaks down his arms.

Stewart's tongue glides over Jim's stomach and then further down, tracing the edge of Jim's ilium through his skin.

Jim freezes.

Stewart's hands slide over his thighs, resting in the shallow dip where his legs blend into his groin.

Jim wills Stewart not go any further, wishes on the name of every star he can think of for Stewart to turn to stone or for his fingers to fall off or for him to choke on his tongue and die right here and now.

Stewart looks up and smiles at Jim, eyes wide and tender and insane.

His fingers move.

Jim screams through the gag and the sound dies away into nothing.

* * *

The third bar they go to, they strike gold.

"Oh, yeah, the captain?" Ensign Richards says, listing slightly to the right, more than a little drunk. "Yeah, he was in here a few hours ago, with what's-his-name, that one guy."

"Jude." Dr. Ferria pipes up. "I work with him in the botany labs. Bit of a weirdo, that one."

"Kirk and this Jude, they were in here? Drinking? When was this?" Bones snaps, eyes bright with the new information.

"Uh... I dunno," Richards says, shrugging. "Lessee.. they were in here before we were, and we got here, at, uh... around 5:30? Maybe? They both left though, ages ago."

"Did they leave together?" Spock asks.

Richards shrugs again. "Dunno. I didn't see, uh, sir. Not really surprised though, if they did, I mean. Jude's got like this _major_ thing for the captain, you know?"

"Major," Ferria agrees with a decisive nod.

McCoy runs a hand through his hair, leaving it ruffled. "Anything else you two little fountains of knowledge can tell us?"

"Uh, not really..." Richards says. Ferria shakes her head.

"Thank you," Spock says firmly, and he and Bones exit the bar back into the bright city night.

"So this Jude guy," Bones asks as they walk. "Know anything about him?"

"I believe they are referring to a Dr. Stewart Jude, head of the botany labs in the science department," Spock says. "We have met a few times, though he has not been stationed aboard the _Enterprise_ for very long. A few months, perhaps."

Bones nods. "Right, okay. Well, it looks like he's all we've got to work with for now, so let's track him down."

"Doctor," Spock says, hesitating. "Do you believe the captain and Dr. Jude are engaging in a... relationship? It would be a logical conclusion, based on the evidence."

Bones snorts, raising an eyebrow to look at Spock. "Jim has a pretty strict policy when it comes to sleeping with his subordinates. _Not to_. It goes against the Great Kirk Moral Code, you know."

Spock nods, processing. "Indeed."

"Yeah, _indeed_, you pointed-eared hobgoblin. Now c'mon. We've still got to haul his ass out of whatever mess he's managed to get into," McCoy says, heading off towards the Academy.

Obtaining the location of Dr. Jude's quarters is easy enough, but it's obvious the man isn't there when they arrive. Still, they let themselves in, examining the apartment.

"Dammit," Bones whispers under his breath as he studies the empty room. He slams the side of a clenched fist into the sofa.

Spock ignores the outburst and strides across the room to the computer.

After telling it the proper sequence of access codes he orders, "Computer. Pull up recent financial records for Dr. Stewart Jude of the Starship _Enterprise."_

Bones raises an eyebrow at him from across the room.

"Can you do that?" He asks curiously. "Is that even legal?"

"Starfleet protocol permits certain measures to be taken when it comes to protecting the welfare of its captains." Spock answers primly. He scans the list of purchases that show up, raising an eyebrow at one of the latest ones.

"It appears that Dr. Jude has rented a motel room in the San Francisco area," Spock says, voice heavy with interest.

"Really?" Bones asks, crossing the room to peer over Spock's shoulder. He makes a curious noise in his throat. "You think he's staying there?"

"I believe it would be sensible to investigate the location." Spock answers.

"Well, alrighty then," Bones says. "Let's go, kemosabe."

They go.

* * *

Jim's eyes are closed.

His fingernails have carved bloody falcate wounds into his palms and his hands are squeezed so tightly into fists he doesn't think he can unclench them. His chest shudders with each quick, harsh breath.

Stewart climbs upward and straddles Jim's torso, resting a gentle hand on his face.

"Jim," He calls softly, and then Stewart's fingers dig into his jaw until his eyes snap open. He smiles gently at him. "That's better. You have such pretty eyes."

Jim glares.

Stewart laughs deep in his throat. He settles back, his weight shifting on Jim's stomach and _fuck_, Jim was nauseas already.

Stewart is done touching him, it seems. The man draws back off of Jim.

Jim seizes his chance.

He kicks out. His foot snaps up, catching under Stewart's jaw hard enough to whip his head upwards. The botanist stumbles back with a cry, hand going to his chin.

"_Fuck!"_ Stewart rages. He turns on Jim, eyes bright with fury. "You little fuck!"

Stewart lunges for a lamp resting on a table by the bed, grabbing it by the base and yanking it hard enough to pull the cord out of its socket, the room abruptly dimming.

Stewart hefts the lamp up and then slams it into Jim's foot.

Jim's back arches and he screams silently, muscles spasming. The edge of the lamp digs into his foot, and he feels the tiny bones buried in it snap as they're crushed beneath the driving force. Quick, hot agony throbs through his foot in rhythm with his pulse.

Stewart falls on Jim like a savage animal, punching him in the face. Jim feels his skin slowly bruise, blood spilling out of his nose to soak into the fabric of his gag.

Stewart hits him over and over. Jim struggles at first but slowly his muscles collapse and he falls, still and helpless, beneath the assault.

Finally, Stewart falls back, panting.

He slides off of the bed, staring at his bloody hands.

"Fuck, Jim," He breathes out despairingly. "_God, _Jim."

Jim lies motionless on his back, eyes open and staring, the metallic taste of his own blood filling his mouth.

Then he hears the sound of a zipper being drawn, and raises his head back up with an effort.

Stewart is fumbling with his own jeans, looking anywhere but at Jim.

Jim's bruised face twists up and his eyes close, something like despair snaking through his veins.

Slowly, Stewart approaches the bed, sliding his jeans down his hips.

Jim's eyes burn hotly as tears work their way out from between his eyelids and slide, one by one, down his face.

* * *

Bones suppresses a yawn with difficulty, blinking his tired eyes. Dammit, it had been a long night.

"This is our destination, Dr. McCoy," Spock says from beside him, and Bones looks out through the grimy bus window to see the neon vacancy sign of the motel.

"So it is," He says. "Shall we?"

The bus pulls away with a low roar and Spock and Bones enter the lobby, making their way to a bored looking receptionist.

Bones flashes his Starfleet identification quickly and then asks for Jude's room number. The receptionist covers a yawn with a splay of brightly-painted fingernails and gives them the information and a room key without arguing.

Bones hums along with the elevator music under his breath while Spock stands stiffly beside him, hands grasped behind his back. Finally, there is a dull chime as the doors open on the correct floor.

"Lead on, commander," Bones gestures sarcastically. Spock ignores him but leads the way, the elevator doors closing with a tired clink behind them.

Spock doesn't bother knocking but slides the key card into the door. Bones rolls his eyes. Damn impatient Vulcans. The little light turns green and Spock opens the door.

Whatever Bones had been expecting to find in the dimly-lit room, it wasn't this.

Jim is chained, naked and bloody, to the bed.

There is a man leaning over him, jeans unbuttoned and low on his hips.

Bones takes it all in in a glance, and then his view is blocked by a charging Vulcan.

Spock darts forward in a blaze of grace and anger, yanking the unfamiliar man back by the shoulder and pulling him into the far wall.

Bones blinks, once, and then his brain catches up with the rest of him and he moves to Jim.

Jim's eyes are closed tightly and when Bones moves close enough he can see that he's shaking violently. There is red streaking his forearms and coating the bottom half of his face, one foot is black and purple. A gag is tied tightly over his mouth. But what really gets to Bones, what really makes something black and cold settle in his stomach and make itself at home, are the thin silvery stains lining Jim's face, the faint tear tracks, glossy in the dim light.

"Jim," Bones whispers, because he can't seem to find his voice.

McCoy's medical training snaps into place at some point. Carefully, he unties the band of fabric from around Jim's head, and pulls out the blood-soaked crumple of cloth he finds in Jim's mouth.

"Jim, hey, kid, it's me," Bones says. "It's alright. It's okay. I'm here."

"Open your eyes, kid," Bones orders softly.

Slowly, Jim obeys. Bones sees the horror in his eyes slowly give way to recognition and naked hope, and he swallows harshly.

"Easy, Jim," Bones whispers. He turns to Jim's ragged wrists, examining the handcuffs with his face twisting into a scowl. He's going to need a key for those. Which reminds him...

Reluctantly, Bones turns from Jim. He blinks at what he sees.

Spock's skin is bleached white, fine tremors running down the length of his arms. His hands are clenched around the man's -- _Jude's, _he supposes -- throat. Jude's face is slowly purpling. He's about a foot off of the floor, back pressed against the wall and feet kicking wildly, hands scrabbling at the hands tight around his throat.

"Spock!" Bones calls. "Spock, _stop it!"_

For an instant Bones entertains the idea of just letting Spock kill the fucker, but rationale sours his fantasy and he scrambles towards the Vulcan, resting a hand lightly on his arm.

"Spock, let him go." Bones demands. "This won't help."

Spock's eyes are dark and he shows no signs of complying.

"_Spock_," Bones growls. "Listen up you green-blooded bastard, I have a seriously fucked-up best friend lying over there and I have absolutely zero time to deal with your drama-queen strangle-happy bullshit. So will you let go of the sonofabitch and help me? Help _Jim?"_

That, at least, snaps the first officer out of it, and he pries his fingers off of Jude's throat. The man slides down the wall, gasping.

"Get the key for the handcuffs from him," Bones says, and then turns his back on them both to get back to his best friend.

Jim is breathing slowly through his open mouth, body trembling.

"Easy, kid, I'm here," Bones says. His gaze sweeps over Jim's nakedness quickly and then he reaches down and pulls a coverlet off of the floor, draping it over him.

He sits down gently on the mattress next to him and strokes a hand through his hair. Jim flinches.

"Hey, Bones," Jim says quietly.

"Hey, Jim," Bones answers, still carding a hand through Jim's blonde hair. After a while, Jim closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

"Shouldn't you be in Georgia?" Jim asks, voice low and hoarse.

"Yeah, well, turns out there was something I needed to do here," Bones says softly.

"Dr. Jude has considerately given me the key," Spock says, suddenly appearing by the headboard. Bones glances over to the unconscious form crumpled on the floor.

Quickly, Spock unlocks the cuffs, and Jim's hands drop bonelessly to the mattress.

"Are you alright, Jim?" Spock asks. A strangled laugh claws its way out of Jim's throat, sounding harsh in the quiet.

_Fuck it_, Bones thinks, and then he gathers Jim up in his arms and pulls him close. Jim stiffens and then melts into him, burying his face into McCoy's side with a rough whimper.

Bones closes his eyes and rests his chin on Jim's sweat-soaked hair, holding him close and feeling his rapid heart keeping pace with his own. He is aware, distantly, of Spock shifting closer to Jim's other side and resting a hand on his shoulder.

"You will be," Bones mutters into Jim's hair. "You will be."

And the three of them hope to God he's not lying.

* * *

_If you have the time, please let me know what you think.  
_


	12. Prayer, Better, Requital, Fetishism

**Disclaimer: Semmi**

**Warnings [separated by section for your convenience]:**

**Prayer - Profanity, themes of spirituality.**

**Better - K/Mc slash. Mush.**

**Requital - Profanity, implied child abuse.**

**Fetishism - Sexual situations, K/Mc/Chair. Not entirely seriously. (It was "fetishism," what did you expect?)**

**A/N: THIS IS NOT A FOLLOW-UP TO "LOVELY." Figured I'd put that in big letters, because I'm sure most of you _were_ expecting a follow-up to "Lovely." I know I was. The damn thing is _fighting_ me, though, and so while we all wait I figured I might as well post the other things I'd written. And I wanted it to be in _order_, too. Humph.**

**Oh, also: It was suggested that I move this story up to the "M" rating, so I did. I figured I'd let you know in case you couldn't find the story. Though if you couldn't find it, how are you reading it now? You must be some kind of wizard!**

**Now, that could be the end of that. . . except now that we're hidden from the kiddies it suddenly feels like I have all this _freedom_ to write about anything I want. Not that I don't do that anyway. But don't be surprised if things get a bit more violent or sexual or anything. I have released the hounds.  
**

* * *

_Prayer_

Hey, God.

Long time, no see.

I know it's been a while since we last talked. And here I am, calling you out of the blue just to ask for a favor. It's kind of a crummy thing to do, I know, but I'm sort of running out of options. You're my last resort.

Yeah, sorry about that. I don't mean to make you feel left out. Then again, you haven't exactly been keeping up with me lately, have you? When was the last time you did something for me, huh? When were you ever there for me? Where have you been all my fucking life?

. . .Probably not a good idea to piss off my only hope, right? Sorry, I'll get back on track. This isn't really about me, anyway.

It's about my friend, Jim Kirk. My best friend. But you probably already knew that. Anyway, he's kind of... not doing so great right now.

You've heaped a lot of shit on Jim his whole life, you know that? First you kill off the poor bastard's father, and then you fuck his mother up in the head, and then you stick him with that sonofabitch of a step-father. . . but I shouldn't really blame you for all that, I suppose. Winona and Frank. . . their actions were their own. They had choices, and they made shitty ones. I won't let them use you as an excuse.

Still, though, Jim sort of gets bad luck raining down on him bucket-loads. I don't know what you've got against the kid. What's he ever done to you? Look, God knows (well, you know what I mean) that the kid can be annoying at times. But honestly? Jim really only deserves the best. He's the bravest, smartest, kindest bastard I know. . . But don't tell him I said that.

But even with all the shit you've put him through, this really takes the cake.

He's dying, you know. Of course you know. He's lying in that room behind me slowly dying and there is _fuck all_ I can do for him. Goddammit.

. . .Sorry.

Anyway, God, look -- here's the deal. Jim's pretty. . . he's pretty special. And I think you know that. And I know you probably want him for yourself. I know you probably want him back. You want to take him away from this shitty mortal existence and have him sit up there in heaven with you. But here's the thing.

You can't have him.

I've spent a lot of time and effort on that kid, and I'm not about to let you swoop down and steal him away from me, okay? No poaching. Get your own damn hero.

Look, I realize you could probably send a lightning bolt down right now and smite me and all, even though we're in the middle of fucking space. But I'm telling you, you're not getting him without a fight.

Take me if you want. That's okay. I'm not worth a helluva lot in the long run.

But you can't have Jim.

Please. You can't take him from. Please don't take him from me.

He's all I got, you know?

So I'm asking you God, I'm begging you. . . I'm getting down on me knees. I know I probably should've done that when I started this, but I'm getting to it now, alright?

Please let him stay here. Please let him live.

I get that it's probably pretty selfish of me. I mean, I just told you all the tragedies that manage to come down around his head, and you're offering him the chance to get away from it all. To save his soul. He could finally be at peace.

But I am a sick, twisted bastard, I suppose, because I'd rather he be down here with me.

I guess I'm going to hell for saying I don't want my best friend to be in heaven, but that's okay. That's the truth.

You know, they say I could trade my soul to the devil for what I want most in the world. What about you, God? Are you willing to make a deal?

I used to hear this story in Sunday school when I was a kid, about how your son was willing to die in order to save the whole world.

I'm willing to die just to save him.

Hang me up on any cross, God. Do your worst.

Just don't take him away.

I haven't done a lot for you, God, but you haven't done a lot for me. Fuck, we're more estranged than me and my ex-wife. Let's mend this broken relationship of ours, okay? Fix our burned bridges.

You do this one thing for me, and we'll call it good.

Please, God.

I don't deserve it, I know. So don't do it for me. Do it for Jim. He deserves it. And I know he wants to survive. I don't think he's quite finished here, yet.

I know I said I didn't believe in you. But if anybody's taught me that there's a god somewhere out there, it's Jim. He gave me _faith_.

And damn you to hell if you take him away from me.

Uh, _Amen._

* * *

_Better_

Jim stands in the middle of the room, an odd optical illusion of isolation. His chin is cocked up defiantly, muscles in his throat moving violently beneath soft exposed skin as he swallows hard. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, glossy and vaporous with curbed tears. His breath is loud and unsteady as he tries to hold whatever it is in him inside.

Bones watches him from his chair.

"Come here," He says.

Jim gives a deep, shaky inhale, eyes sliding closed as he breathes it out. He peels his feet off the floor and walks to Bones.

McCoy's hands reach up and pull, coax, gentle and insistent, and Jim slides into his lap. He curls in on himself and buries his face into McCoy's shoulder. Bones holds him firmly, pressing his cheek against the top of Jim's head. Jim huddles in his lap, still.

Jim is no light-weight, and after awhile McCoy's feet start to tingle.

"You're heavy," He grumbles. Jim shifts slightly and pressed against his skin Bones can feel his mouth bend into a smile.

Bones gropes with one hand and finds Jim's, threading their fingers together. The sliver of air between their palms grows warm and damp.

"Better?" Bones asks, tracing his free hand lightly down Jim's thigh. The muscle quivers slightly beneath his touch.

Jim tilts his head and presses a mellow kiss beneath the curve of McCoy's jaw, pulse drumming softly against his lips.

"Yeah," Jim whispers, grip tightening in McCoy's hand, "Better."

* * *

_Requital_

"I begged, you know," Jim says, voice flat. "I fucking begged her. I grabbed her hand when she was walking out the door and tripped when she pulled away and I fell to my knees and pleaded with her to take me away."

Bones doesn't say anything, but his throat is dry and he swallows hard.

"I'd told her. I'd told her so many times about what he did to me. And she wouldn't believe me. She _refused_ to believe me. My face must've looked like road-kill and she looked at me and called me a liar." Jim's eyes are full of smothered flames.

There is a dull pain in the palms of his hands, and Bones realizes dimly he has dug his fingernails into his skin hard enough to bleed.

He doesn't say sorry. He can't say sorry. Jim will either laugh or punch him. Probably both. And then he'll run, and Bones can't have that.

Instead he forces his voice to stay level and asks Jim, "Why are you telling me this now?"

Because it's not that Bones doesn't want Jim to talk, doesn't wish he would say more, even if he isn't sure he really wants to hear it all. But Jim _never _talks about this. Never. So if he's saying it now, if he's disinterring these decade-old secrets, there's got to be a reason.

Jim slides a PADD across the table, jaw tight, and Bones picks it up gingerly. He scans the article displayed and his eyes widen.

_"A heart-warming surprise today from Starfleet. Captain James T. Kirk of the USS Enterprise, Starfleet's flagship, has announced that he will be using his recent pay increase to found a children's charity. His only condition is that the non-profit organization be named after his mother, for, in his words, 'all the things she did when I was a kid.' And so, The Winona A. Kirk Voices of Children Foundation. Dedicated to helping children in abusive and neglectful homes. 'We listen when those who should, won't, and speak when those who wish they could, can't.'"_ Bones reads aloud, voice full of awe. "Oh, Jim. . ."

"Do you think," Jim says carefully, his hands flattening on the table and then relaxing so his fingers curl slightly like a dead spider's legs. "That that will make the headlines in Riverside, Iowa?"

"Starfleet's youngest captain in history, saviour of the world, protector of the federation, fantasy of every girl aged twelve and up in the entire universe donates his paycheck to start a charity?" Bones asks. "Yeah. I think it'll make headlines _everywhere."_

"Good." Jim says, eyes slightly cold. His mouth curves slowly into a tight smile.

Bones reaches out and grabs Jim's hand. For an instant he can see on Jim's face hurt and rage and fear and agony and then, as Bones squeezes his hand lightly, it is all gone. Jim smiles warmly at him, eyes calmed, and squeezes back.

* * *

_Oh, wow, Winona Kirk. You're that woman who helps children, aren't you? Captain James Kirk's mother? You sure did a good job raising that one, didn't you? You must be so proud. Tell me, how does it feel? How does it feel?_

_How does it feel?_

_

* * *

_

_Fetishism_

"Hello, baby," Jim croons, running his fingertips lightly over his chair's armrests. "Did you miss me?"

"You like that thing far too much," Bones grumbles, crossing his arms. "It's not healthy."

"Oh, _yeah,_" Jim breathes out huskily, ignoring Bones. He closes his eyes as he slouches in the chair, fingers curving around the edge of the armrests in a pale grip, knees sliding apart as he sprawls. "Oh, beautiful, I missed _you."_

Bones licks his lips slightly and forces himself to turn away.

Bones isn't sure what Jim said to clear out everybody for the night except for the two of them, but the bridge is quiet. Its usual bright glow is muted into dim lighting that darkens the shadows in Jim's face and brings every curve of his bone structure into sharp relief.

Bones eyes Jim in his peripherals, and tugs lightly on the collar of his shirt.

Jim wriggles slightly in the chair, pulling himself up straight and then arching his back as he tips his head over the chair back. Pink lips part into an "o" and Bones watches his tongue slowly slide over his top incisors.

Bones can feel his own pulse thrumming in him as he looks at Jim's body, flexing and spread-out and open. Jim rubs his spine against the chair like a cat in heat, and a throaty moan pulls itself quietly from his throat. The back of his shirt sticks to the chair as he grinds against it, pulling up and exposing a sudden hint of skin.

Twisting his head, Jim's eyes snap open and lock onto McCoy's, sudden reflective sparks in the dimness. His fingers curl in an invitation.

"Are you coming over here, or what?" He demands quietly. His legs spread wider and one hand drops between them to rest on the seat of the chair, stroking back over the material towards himself.

Bones swallows.

"It is a rather nice chair, isn't it?" Bones asks, stepping towards him. Jim reaches out and pulls him down.

Half-kneeling on the edge of the chair, Bones erases the captain's grin with his lips.

* * *

**You kids these days, you sher got it lucky when it comes to reviewin'. Why, back in my day, if we wanted reviews, we had t' go and get 'em ourselves. We didna have nona this fancy tech-nah-logy. Oh no sirree. No, if we wanted reviews, we had t' walk t' get 'em. Ten miles it was. Twenty miles on a bad day. And we couldn't afferd nothin' crazy like shoes, so we had to do it barefoot. 'Course, some of the kids like my cousin Jimmy Bo would peel the labels offa soup cans and tie those 'round their feet. And it was always snowin' too, so cold it'd freeze the udders offa the cows. Cold enough to freeze your feet solid, too, and you could loose a coupla good toes that way. They'd fall right off. Jimmy Bo lost his right pinky that way, after the snow chewed up his cream o' mushroom boots into nothin'. And 'course, wherever we was goin' it was up-hill both ways. That's how I met my Jebediah, you know. We was both walkin' to get us some reviews, he's a goin' north and I'sa goin' south, and natur'lly we're both goin' up. So, 'course, we both reach down to help each other up and whoo-ee, Jebediah 'bout swept me offa my feet. He charmed me with a bouquet of a dozen reviews, ev'ry week, and he'd carry me all the way up the hill when the snowin' got really bad and my toes seemed liable to start fallin' off and your still reading this? Seriously? You could've already reviewed by now. Twice.**


	13. Afterward

**Disclaimer: Enginn.**

**Warnings: Profanity, violence, sex, annoyingly stylistic format, ****character death****. K/S and K/Mc, Bones POV. Aaaaangsty.  
**

**A/N: Still not a follow-up to "Lovely." Grrrr.**

**. . . Possibly because I'm becoming distracted by this new idea for a multi-chaptered stxi fic, which in the interest of shameless self-promotion I'll tell you is a SUPER-HARDCORE AU in which everybody is a **_**mother-fucking superhero.**_** Well, not **_**everyone**_**. This is happening because I am just that much of a nerd. Working title is "**_**Spandex." **_**Coming soon to a theatre near you!**

**Follow-up to "Lovely" _will _happen, though, dammit. Any day now.  
**

**Anyway, back to **_**this **_**fic -- this piece was a short little half-page vignette. Was. It's still a bit short, but I decided to post it on its own because of the aaaaaangst.**

**And once more with feeling: **_**Character Death.**_

**Oh, and uh, Happy Valentine's Day.  
**

**

* * *

**

_Afterward_

_

* * *

_

**half a second**

The smile of relief doesn't quite have time to fall from Jim's face, but Leonard sees his eyes widen in surprise and his body instinctively jerk, like standing in a puddle of salt water and touching a light socket, connecting an emotional circuit with an arc of raw electricity.

**two seconds**

Jim follows the falling body down, not quite quick enough to catch it before it hits the ground. The smell of copper is suddenly clinging to the inside of Leonard's nostrils, but he half-wonders if it's just his imagination.

**ten seconds **

Jim is pressing his hands into the wound, hard, and Leonard has to shove him forcefully out of the way to see what he can do.

**one minute **

A part of him knows it's hopeless. Knows it was already hopeless before the body even hit the ground. But still, he has to try, _has to_, because Jim is crouching right there, close enough to feel his uneasy breathing warm against Leonard's skin, and he _has to try._

**ten minutes**

_he's dead, Jim_

Leonard says, voice wrung dry with shock. He peels his middle and index fingers away from the silenced pulse and lets his tricorder drop to the wet ground.

Jim has wormed his way closer during Leonard's fruitless triage and is bent over the body, frozen in a protective crouch like an antiquated gargoyle. A pale hand is clenched in his own, tight enough that the pianist's fingers are crumpled together and Leonard thinks might even be broken by now.

Jim doesn't move, or make a sound. Leonard waits.

**fourteen minutes**

The world is strangely hushed, and Leonard can't even hear his own breathing. Belatedly, he realizes that that's because he's been holding his breath.

Then Jim throws his head back, face turned towards the star-speckled sky but eyes too tightly closed to see it. His mouth parts and he lets out a loud keening wail from somewhere deep in his diaphragm. Leonard feels a shiver run down his spine, prickling between his shoulder blades, and his ears ache at the high cry of deep, insatiable despair.

**fifteen minutes**

Jim rises from the ground like a dark angel, hands painted green. Leonard can see his silhouette from where it interrupts the constellations behind him, and there is something dark and horrifying and heartbreaking in the way he looks now.

In the dim night light, Leonard catches a glimpse of Jim's eyes, deadened and darkened and animalistic. His humanity bleeds out of his pupils and leaves behind something carnal and ruthless, like a mad dog.

Something instinctive, a few millennia's worth of hair-trigger hard-wired responses to flame and storm and the sea, tells Leonard to be afraid.

Silently Jim turns and takes off into the night

Sliding on the blood-slicked grass, Leonard follows him.

**one hour**

Jim tears apart everyone he comes across, red painting over the green on his hands. His killings are ruthless and inexorable.

Slaughter.

Leonard can only watch. He is as a shadow now, trailing after Jim and his rabidity.

**two days**

As soon as the fine eddies of gold solidify, Jim drops bonelessly onto the transporter platform. Something like the will to live hemorrhages out of him.

**five days**

Jim's eyes gaze unfailingly at the ceiling, lying on his back on his curtained-off sickbay bed. He doesn't move or speak, and Leonard feels something slipping away from him.

**one week **

_is it morning, Bones?_

Jim asks quietly one day, catatonia finally shattering. Leonard jumps and the PADD in his hands crashes noisily to the floor.

_dammit, Jim_

Leonard exclaims, because it's the only words that manage to make their way out of his throat.

_you scared me, you fucker_

He starts talking but he's not really aware of what he's saying, too busy staring at the way Jim's eyes are focusing. He notices, dimly, how weary he sounds, how hoarse his voice.

Jim stops Leonard's tirade before it can really gather momentum, raising one slightly shaky hand, IVs snaking out of his wrist. Leonard reaches out and grabs it, curling their fingers around each other.

The returning grip is weak. Jim's hand is perfectly clean but all Leonard can see is green and red, and blood caked beneath his fingernails.

**three weeks**

Leonard is pretty sure Sulu has the _Enterprise _going in circles. The ship is headed for nowhere, sluggishly drifting between the lackluster stars. Nobody is objecting.

The entire ship is in mourning.

Jim is captain-but-not-quite. He wanders the ship like a restless ghost, giving no orders and making no decisions. Leonard doesn't think he's stepped foot on the bridge.

One o'clock, and Leonard keys in the CMO override to Jim's quarters and steps in as soon as the doors open with a muted whoosh.

He sets a tray down on Jim's table with a clatter, piled high with protein- and calorie-rich foods.

_eat _

he demands.

Jim looks up from where he was busily staring at nothing and doesn't quite meet Leonard's eyes. Not like he's avoiding his gaze, but like he can't even find it.

He slides a plate towards himself at random and picks up his fork and stabs it down towards the food without looking and eats.

There's something robotic about the way he moves.

Leonard watches, familiar enough with heartbreak to recognize the feeling in his chest.

**one month**

The call comes over the intercom system and Jim makes his way to the bridge.

The _Enterprise _is in trouble, Chekhov explains, hands moving over the control panel and words jumbled.

Jim trails his fingers over the back of his chair as he walks around it. He pauses, waiting for something that will never come, and Leonard can see the sharp edge of despair lingering in the grim set of his mouth.

Jim sinks down into his chair and takes command.

**two months**

Leonard feels Jim's hands carefully to make sure nothing's broken. The half-dried blood on them comes off on his fingers like fingerprint ink. He's pretty sure at least a few bones are cracked. Behind them, the punching bag bleeds synthetic sand, like time dribbling down in an hourglass.

Jim's skin is sticky with sweat and he trembles as the rage and adrenaline fades away.

Leonard watches Jim slowly break more and more, and with an acidic taste in his mouth he hates a dead man.

**four months**

_you're drunk_

Leonard says carefully, eyeing the faceted decanter.

_getting there_

Jim shrugs and takes another drink.

Leonard pours himself a glass and Jim doesn't object.

_is it working?_

_is what working?_

_drowning your sorrows_

_...no._

**ten months**

Leonard fucks Jim.

He tries to go gentle, handling Jim like glass and baby birds and old paper, but Jim bucks into him and grapples and claws and fights. He forces a violence. Jim's kisses are all teeth and desperation as he tries to make this into something else. Leonard lets him.

Jim is vicious and needy, and Leonard winds his fingers tightly into his hair as his cravings become more brutal and yanks him back down. He hurts, and it feels _so damn good._

Skin and skin stick together and each thrust burns.

Somewhere in the sex-struggle-surrender Jim is bleeding, and the sight of the red sparks hot bursts of memory in Leonard's sex-clouded mind. That blood on Jim's skin is familiar. Haunting like old ghosts and dark memories.

Jim is a quicksand of lust and grief and yearning and Leonard lets himself sink. He always wanted to.

Their breath is rapid and mismatched and he hates himself for how much he enjoys this.

Jim gives a high, choked-off sound of pain as Leonard shoves into him severely one last time. A few seconds later his chest presses up against Leonard's as his spine bows.

Leonard's not surprised at the quiet, hollow name Jim calls as he comes.

**one year**

Loving Jim was always too easy.

Leonard wonders, sometimes, how Jim could be such a fucking genius and not figure out what's right in front of his face.

_And sometimes he wonders if Jim knew all along, but that thought is excruciating, terrifying, and he buries it deep down, down, down._

The way Jim thanks him after they have sex reminds Leonard of clumsy hand-jobs back in the academy and wanting what he can never have.

It makes him think of Jim slowly falling in love with somebody else and his thoughts burn like bile in his brain.

He never was enough for Jim. No one ever was enough for Jim.

Now Leonard watches Jim go through the motions, mechanical in his never-ending grief.

Deadened.

Leonard never was enough for Jim. He wonders if Spock was.

**two years**

Leonard gets the call and he wonders if he should feel surprised.

They tell him it was an accident. He knows better.

He pours himself a drink from a crystal decanter, something sharp and powerful that tastes a little like blood.

_two down_

He thinks as he swallows, throat and eyes burning.

And he thinks of puddles of green and red and wonders what the hell he's supposed to do now.

* * *

**Roses are red**

**Violets are blue**

**I'd love you forever**

**If you would review  
**


	14. Straight

**Disclaimer: Ei.**

**Warnings: Profanity, sex, sensitive themes, mushiness, lots of talking, long, AUish, academy days, K/Mc. As an added bonus, all-knowing!Gaila.  
**

**A/N: I had a good time with this one. Hope you do, too.**

**Also, I probably don't have to tell you that this isn't a follow-up to "Lovely." But there. I just did anyways.**

* * *

_Straight_

_

* * *

_

"I think I might be gay," Jim said, sprawled mostly upside-down on the couch. There was a PADD in his hands and an apple clenched in his teeth, so his coming out sounded a little more like _Ah hink ah mm ee guh._

"Huh," Leonard said, mulling over his abnormal psychology homework. _A phobia disorder is characterized by an irrational fear, in which fear of a situation or object greatly outweighs the actual threat it presents. . ._

There was a wet, crisp noise as Jim took a big bite of his apple, and his loud chewing filled the quiet.

He swallowed and then continued, "Yeah, I've been thinking about this for a while, and I'm pretty sure I'm gay."

"Hmm," Leonard acknowledged. _Some common phobias are arachnophobia, a fear of spiders, and acrophobia, a fear of heights. . ._

"I mean," Jim said around another overly large bite, "Ever since that thing in that club with that girl. . . Mariska? Marissa? Marcy?"

"Marcia," Leonard corrected. _Another is agoraphobia, a fear of open or public spaces, which can severely debilitate patients' daily lives. . ._

Jim nodded. "Yeah. Well, there was _that_, to start off, and then Kraquin in my astrophysics class was asking me why you and I never date and --"

"Wait, what?" Leonard asked, finger resting between the definitions of claustrophobia and arachibutyrophobia.

"Well, he was saying that since we spend so much time together and all that he had assumed that we were dating, and when I said that we weren't he asked why, and then I said it was because we've got this pretty nice friendship thing going and I didn't want to fuck it up, and he said that shouldn't I have said that the reason we didn't date is because we're both men and I'm not gay. And then I realized that that never really occurred to me. Not even a blip on my radar. And then I realized that that probably wasn't normal. Not that being gay is abnormal. Just. You know. It was weird for me. I mean, the whole penis thing wasn't even an issue." Jim explained.

Leonard blinked. "We're talking about my penis in that sentence, right?"

"Right," Jim confirmed.

Leonard glanced down. _Aviaphobia._ He knew that one. "Okay then. Just wanted to make sure."

Jim concluded, "And then I figured that if the whole penis thing wasn't an issue, I was probably gay. And then I started to think about guys like _that_, and I realized that, hey, I was kind of into it. So, yeah. I think I'm gay. Just thought you should know."

He ripped out one last chunk of his apple with his teeth and lobbed the core into the wastebasket.

"Uh-huh," Leonard said. _Coulrophobia._ _Fear of clowns._

There was a weighty pause.

"Is this. . ." Jim started then stopped. Leonard looked up. He was faced with the surreal sight of Jim strangely hesitant, eyes unsure. ". . .Going to be an issue? Because I completely understand if you --"

"No," Leonard cut him off. _Homophobia_, his finger underlined, _fear of homosexuality. _"No, it's not an issue at all."

* * *

"Howabout the blond? In the corner." Gaila pointed with her finger, taking a dainty sip of her ridiculously-coloured drink.

Jim squinted. "Nah. He looks kind of. . . dumb."

Gaila rolled her eyes, pulling a cherry off of its toothpick and squeezing it between two fingers so it bulged, glossy and red. "People don't _look_ dumb, Jim, they _are _dumb."

Encouraged by his friends, the blond in the corner preceded to see how many peanuts he could fit in his nostrils.

Jim turned to Gaila, eyebrow raised.

"Okay," She admitted. "Right now he looks pretty dumb. What about that guy?"

"The one with the gills?" Jim asked, cocking his head to the right. "Hmm."

"Gills can be fun," Gaila assured. "Means he doesn't have to breathe with his mouth."

"Why would that. . . oh," Leonard said. "Oh. Right. Somebody get me another beer."

"Comin' right up, Bones. Gaila, darling? Same again?" Jim said, sliding out of his seat. He ruffled Leonard's hair as he walked by, laughing when Leonard growled lowly at him.

Gaila giggled until Jim was out of sight, then swiveled on the vinyl towards Leonard. She twirled a cocktail umbrella between her teeth, and a handful of patrons stared at the swirling pink paper, mesmerized.

"So," She said, "You're taking Jim coming out awfully well."

"So are you," Leonard countered, raising his head from where it was buried in his folded arms.

Gaila shrugged, grinning. "Well, yeah. I don't mind at all. Means I've got someone to chat about boys with. And maybe have the occasional devil's threesome with. Besides, Jim's such a sweetheart. I just want him to be happy."

"So do I," Leonard said.

Gaila pulled the cocktail umbrella out of her mouth, staring at him with quietly appraising eyes. Sometimes Leonard forgot her intelligence, and he was always a little ashamed of himself when he remembered again.

"Yes, well, in my experience you humans are usually unreceptive to homosexuality. The idea of living with a guy who's gay doesn't weird you out at all? Not afraid he's going to be lusting after you?" She asked.

"It's Jim," Leonard deadpanned. "My weirded-out tokens have pretty much been used up."

"No comment on the lusting after thing, eh?" She asked, slurping on her frothy concoction.

Leonard shrugged. "I guess I didn't really consider it."

Gaila hummed thoughtfully. "Well, you're just a refreshingly sensible straight person, aren't you? Most of their egos are so over-blown they just automatically assume if someone the same sex as them is gay, they _must_ be attracted to them."

"Thank you, I think?" Leonard asked, watching her thin green fingers fondle the tiny parasol.

She smiled at him blindingly, "At any rate, I'm just glad you're so. . . _receptive_ to the thought of Jim being attracted to guys. Not that I'm surprised or anything. I mean, it is _you_ we're talking about here, Lenny."

Leonard blinked. "There's several different conversations going on here, aren't there? And I'm only following one of them, aren't I?"

Gaila laughed, high and beautifully. "Oh, Lenny, _if_ that."

She winked at him, finishing off her drink with a loud, bubbling slurp.

* * *

Leonard shoved his hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched and collar flipped up against the reluctant drizzle. The sky was an oyster-shell gray and the academy lawns were slowly turning to sludge beneath the light but persistent rain.

He mulled his abnormal psych final over and over again in his mind, mouth grimly set. An hour into the three hour time-limit his brain had stubbornly refused to give up any more information, and after staring at his test for another thirty minutes he reluctantly had left.

He hoped Jim would be home at the dorm, willing to listen to Leonard bitch and ready with a steady supply of alcohol.

Scrubbing a hand over one eye, Leonard opened the door and walked in.

"Sweet mother of God!" He yelled, stepping back hurriedly through the door and letting it slide shut again in front of him.

He spun around quickly so his back hit the wall, hard, and slid to the floor.

Jim had been home, alright. Lying on his back over the table, sweat-slicked skin sliding on the plastic. A guy Leonard hadn't quite recognized had been bowed over Jim's stretched body, one hand splayed across his chest and half-pinning him down, the fingers of the other curved around his cock. He noted, distantly, that he did not appear to have gills. At least nowhere Leonard could see. And he could see a heck of a lot.

He swallowed hard, eyes wide enough he could feel them slowly drying out.

A few minutes passed. And then a few more, and Leonard was busy not thinking about the tiny, abbreviated noises Jim had been making, or his damp-darkened hair, or the shivering muscles lying just beneath his skin.

The door opened with a gentle whoosh and Jim walked out, sliding down the wall next to Leonard. Out of the corner of his eye, he vaguely recognized the sweat-pants hanging low beneath the top curve of Jim's pelvis as his own.

"So," Leonard said conversationally after a beat, "I'm back early."

"Well, that doesn't bode well for the psych final. What happened? How'd you do?" Jim asked, concerned.

"Eh," Leonard said, staring at the opposite wall. "Could've gone better."

Jim hummed sympathetically. "You already had an A in that class though, right? You'll be fine."

The wall was proving to be singularly unexciting.

"Yeah." He agreed. "So, by the way, new friend of yours?"

Jim nodded, brief motion in Leonard's peripherals. "Yeah. That's Woody."

"Well, I could see that."

"Nah, I mean his name's actually Woody. Short for Woodrow." Jim explained.

"Ah. Like the president?" Leonard asked.

"Yeah, like the president. And trust me, I made that joke. Many, many times." Jim said.

Leonard squeezed his eyes shut briefly.

"That was the table. Our table. Where we eat."

"Yeah," Jim agreed. "If it makes you feel any better, we started on the couch."

Leonard sighed lightly. "No. No it does not."

Jim chuckled a bit, scooting closer to Leonard so he could feel the warmth of his flushed skin, and smell the sweat and sex clinging to him with every breath.

"So, where is President Wilson anyhow?" Leonard questioned.

Jim shrugged, shoulders brushing against Leonard's. "I told him to give me a few minutes to make sure you weren't freaking out."

Right on cue, the dormitory doors slid open once more, and Woody stepped out.

He knelt down, bracing himself with one hand on the wall behind Jim's head, and kissed him, hanging onto Jim's bottom lip with his teeth for a second as he pulled away.

"Call me," He said, straightening up. Smoothing out his red cadet's uniform, he turned and walked away with a swagger.

"Pity we don't have door-handles," Leonard sighed as Woody turned the corner. "The whole sock-on-the-handle trick could really come in handy."

Jim laughed, bumping Leonard's shoulder again with his own.

* * *

Gaila stretched out on the blanket, the white sundress she was wearing sliding up her thighs. A pair of bicyclists riding by gaped, narrowly avoiding crashing into a small copse of oak trees.

"Bones, ham and cheese. Gaila, gorgeous, this must be yours, it has far too many vegetables on it. Which means this one's mine. Cheers." Jim said, passing out sandwiches.

"This is a picnic," Bones said slowly, peeling the clinging plastic wrap off of his sandwich.

"'Course it is, Lenny," Gaila agreed cheerfully. "What'd you think we were talking about when we asked you to bring a blanket and come do something public and unsanitary?"

"I figured I'd be spending my weekend getting the two of you out of jail. I even brought bail money." Leonard said, taking a bite of ham and cheese.

Jim patted his shoulder sympathetically and pulled out a six-pack. "S'okay, Bones. Don't be too disappointed. We have beer."

Leonard humphed and ate his sandwich in silence.

Lunch eaten, Leonard had pulled out a PADD and attempted to get some homework done. Jim had peeled off his shoes and socks and stretched out next to Gaila, faces close and a curl of her red hair sprawling across his cheek. Their voices were muffled and happy, Leonard's ears prickling at their sporadic giggling.

Leonard leaned against an oak tree, the sunlight warm on his legs, sinking beneath his jeans and clinging to his skin. After a while he gave up on trying to get the words blurring on the PADD to sink in, and instead closed his eyes, breathing in the tangy smell of fresh-cut grass.

"Ooh, Jim, six o'clock!" Bones opened his eyes as Gaila raised her voice. Jim lifted his head off the ground and squinted.

"What? The Dalmatian? That's more like one o'clock, Gaila." Jim said.

"Pssh," She waved her hand dismissively. "And not the Dalmatian. The guy walking the Dalmatian."

"Oh," Jim said, cocking his head.

"He's cute," Gaila prodded.

"He _is_ cute," Jim agreed. Peeling himself off the ground he straightened up, dusting off his knees.

Gaila giggled, covering her mouth with one hand. "Go get 'em, tiger."

"If you'll excuse me," Jim said smartly, tossing Leonard a wink. He set off at an easy jog down the pathway, stopping when he got to the-guy-walking-the-Dalmatian. He dropped into a squat before the dog, offering it the back of his hand to sniff. The dog seemed to find him worthy, and happily licked Jim's hand, tail wagging in a way that shook its whole body.

Jim's hands ran over the dog, neck craned up to chat with its smiling owner. Leonard could only faintly make out their conversation.

"So," Gaila said. He tore his eyes away from the scene to face her, blinking slightly at the bright smile she was shooting him. "Heard you forgot to knock the other day."

Leonard winced. "It's my dorm. I don't have to knock. And. . . yeah. At least Jim seems to be handling this well."

Gaila laughed. "Or at least he seems to be getting handled well."

He rolled his eyes. Gaila flipped on her side, resting the edge of her jaw on one hand, propped up by her elbow, and stared at Leonard appraisingly.

Leonard could feel the tone of the conversation about to darken, like storm clouds drawing over a summer sky.

"His step-father used to call him a fag," Gaila said.

Leonard stilled.

"Not that Jim was doing anything like this," She gestured over to where Dalmatian-guy was throwing his head back, sun bright on his face, laughing. "Just because he thought it was a terrible thing to call someone."

Leonard could feel his teeth clenching together, hard.

"There are worst things to be, don't you think?" Gaila asked, blue eyes sharp and bright.

"Yeah," Leonard said slowly, feeling some of his dull rage transfer from his fingernails to the palms of his hands. He looked over at Jim, patting a spotted dog and smiling. "Yeah, I do."

* * *

"Bones?" Jim asked, like he was having trouble working his tongue. He slumped heavily against Leonard's side, one arm slung over his shoulder, but Leonard wasn't entirely sure who was holding who up.

"Yeah?" Leonard answered.

"This is nice," Jim said, head lolling back in the crook of Leonard's shoulder, hair tickling his throat.

"Yeah," Leonard agreed.

"Just. . . you and me. This thing we have. It's nice." Jim explained.

"It is." Leonard said. He shifted Jim, reaffirming his grip, and stumbled against the curb.

Jim twisted, mouth tucked against Leonard's skin.

"I love you, you know?" He said, voice muffled. He sighed happily, breath hot, and Leonard shivered.

Leonard gave up. He sank down onto a bus-stop bench, tugging Jim down with him. The blond tumbled half-onto his lap, slumping comfortably against him.

"You're my best friend," Jim continued. "You're my. . . you're my. . . you're _Bones."_

Leonard wrapped an arm around Jim, pulling him closer. He craned his neck back to look up at the starless city sky.

"Yeah, Jim," He said quietly, when Jim's breath evened out into sleep. "I love you, too."

* * *

"I'm pretty sure I'm not gay," Jim said.

"Lights at sixty percent," Leonard commanded, half-covering a yawn. He glanced over at the dully glowing clock and suppressed a wince.

Jim was sitting at the table, a bottle of tequila and a plastic container full of home-made cookies Gaila had sent over earlier in front of him.

Jim rubbed his forearm lightly with his opposite hand. "Figured I'd let you know."

"Huh," Leonard said. He sank down into a chair and pulled the cookies towards himself.

"Yeah," Jim continued, tipping his head back to down another mouthful of alcohol. He set the glass down with a clink. "I'm just not sure it's my thing."

"Hmm," Leonard acknowledged around a mouthful of chocolate chip.

Jim shifted, tugging his sleeve down half-way over his knuckles. He fidgeted with the bottle of tequila, rocking it lightly on the table.

"What can I say? Tried it out, didn't care for it, moving on. Plus, there was this girl at this club with these legs. . . And I was looking at her, and thinking about her, and I realized, man, I really couldn't be gay. So, yeah." Jim elaborated. His fingers curled around his forearm.

Leonard picked up another cookie. "What about Woody?"

"Well, Woody. . . it was just a hand-job, you know? Everybody has hands. Girls have hands. You can get a hand-job anywhere. Think it was just a fluke. This is Academy, right? People are supposed to be experimenting. But I mean, after tonight, I'm just pretty sure it's not what I'm into. Guys, I mean. I'm not into guys." Jim shrugged, scrubbing at his arm self-consciously with the heel of his hand.

Leonard reached across the table and snagged Jim's wrist, pulling it towards him despite the resistance in Jim's muscles. He peeled back Jim's sleeve, staring incredulously at the purpling handprint developing on his forearm.

"What happened?" He demanded, looking at the bruises and imagining the blood percolating just below Jim's skin.

Jim drew his arm back, chair scraping on the floor.

"Nothing. Nothing happened. I met this guy. We had sex. It's just. . ." Jim stared at the bottle of tequila, light refracting through it. "It wasn't very. . . nice."

"Jim. . ." Leonard said, and he was pretty sure he didn't manage to keep the horror out of his voice.

Jim's jaw worked, tongue running over the backs of his teeth. "No, I mean, it's not like he. . . he didn't. . . I _asked _for it."

He smiled without any happiness. "Guess it just wasn't what I was expecting."

"Anyway, yeah, don't really want to do that again. Just not for me. So, learning from my mistakes and all that. . . I think I'm straight." He concluded.

"Jim," Leonard said slowly. "I don't think it works like that."

Jim shrugged, spinning the bottle of tequila between his palms.

"You can't just. . . _change_ your sexuality. Even if you want to." Leonard said.

"I do want to. Of course I want to. Why would I want to be like this?" Jim gestured helplessly at himself. "Why would anybody want to be like this?"

"It's. . . there's nothing wrong with being gay," Leonard insisted.

Jim's laugh was brittle. "Oh, yeah, sure."

"_Jim_," Leonard tugged the bottle out of his hands. He snaked his fingers through Jim's, pinning them down on the table. "There's nothing wrong with it, you hear me? There's nothing wrong with _you."_

Jim's hands struggled in his. Voice quiet, he averred, "Nothing good can come of it."

"Dammit, kid," Leonard whispered, voice hushed to match Jim's. And for the thousandth time he longed to ask the question Jim always drew from him. _Who broke you, kid? _"Look, I know that there's a lot of shit out there that says gays are the scourge of humanity, sins against God, crimes against nature --"

"Bones," Jim broke in, "Is this supposed to be helping?"

"Right. Sorry. Anyway, the point is, it's all a load of shit. There's nothing wrong with you for being gay. It's all. . . it's all just biology. Genetics. You don't have a choice. And there's nothing wrong with that. There's never anything wrong with loving someone." Leonard said.

Jim looked at him, eyes luminous.

"On Tarsus," He said slowly, and Leonard bit down on the edge of his tongue, "They decided that being gay put you in the wrong 4,000. That it meant something was flawed with you, genetically. That it was a defect. That you were different, inferior, _wrong. _And so they made them. . . they. . ."

He trailed off into silence, but Leonard had learned enough about Tarsus IV to have an idea of what they had made them do.

"Everybody thinks there's something _wrong_ with it," Jim rasped. "And I was okay. I was. I didn't think I cared what everyone else though. But now, after tonight. . . now I don't know why anybody would ever _want_ to do these things."

Leonard tasted something acidic in his mouth as he thought about the blotchy bruises on Jim's arm.

"It _hurt_," Jim said, voice breaking.

His knuckles protested as he tightened his grip, fingers intertwined tightly with Jim's. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Jim breathed out shakily, "I don't want to be this way."

* * *

"So," Gaila said over the music, as they both watched a blue-haired girl attempt to use Jim as her personal stripper pole. "How are you doin' with Jim being straight?"

Leonard snorted, shaking the ice in his glass with a hollow clinking sound. "He's not straight. He just wishes he was straight because of all the shit that's been piled up on him."

Gaila nodded. "He's not gay, either. He likes women and the things women do far too much for that. Bisexual, I think is the term you humans use."

"Pansexual, maybe," Leonard grumbled, catching Jim eyeing a slender, indigo-skinned being of indeterminable gender.

Gaila laughed, stealing a sip of Leonard's drink.

"Maybe, Lenny," She agreed, and then her voice became more serious. "The bigger issue is getting him to be okay with that."

"Yeah," Leonard said, watching Jim writhe in time with the music, dancing in a way that was outlawed on a some planets, including, he was pretty sure, earth.

"He sure looks good, doesn't he?" Gaila sighed, finishing Leonard's drink. He turned and looked at her looking at Jim.

"Do you and he. . .?" Leonard asked hesitantly.

"Yes," Gaila said. She smiled indulgently. "Your species is so silly about sex, I'll never understand it. At least Jim's a bit better than most of you. Most of the time, that is. Yes, we have sex. And we're damn good at it, too. And. . . and it makes him feel better. It makes _me_ feel better."

"Do you love him?" Leonard asked before he could stop himself.

She glanced over at Jim, flashing lights colouring his skin. Her eyes gentled.

"Yes," She said simply, smiling softly. "Yes, of course I do. How could I not?"

Her eyes snapped back to his. "But it's not the kind of love you're thinking of, Lenny."

Leonard wasn't quite sure what to say. He went to take a sip of his drink, and got only melted ice water.

The moments passed in silence, the two of them watching Jim dance.

"He's not broken, you know," Gaila said thoughtfully, eventually. "Sometimes it seems like he is, but he's not."

"I know," Leonard said. He took another swallow of alcohol-tinted water and pressed the cool glass to his forehead.

Eyes on the table, he stopped staring at Jim.

"Oh, Lenny," Gaila said sympathetically. "Whenever you ever going to learn to go after what you want, before it's gone?"

He glanced up at her questioningly, but only got an expectant, blue-eyed gaze.

* * *

"I think Gaila thinks I'm in love with you," Leonard said.

Jim pulled himself up on the couch, looking over the headrest where Leonard stood behind him.

"Bones?" He asked, confused.

"Gaila. She thinks I'm in love with you." Leonard clarified. He felt his hand twitch down by his side. "And, well, I'm pretty sure she's right."

Jim blinked.

"So, yeah," Leonard continued steadily. "I think I'm in love with you. Just thought you should know."

Jim licked his lips in confusion, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth.

"And I know I'm not gay, and you're not gay," Leonard said. "But I've been thinking about it, and ever since I don't know when. . . Well, it's you and it's me and we've got this thing. . . and I've certainly got this thing. . . and I just think --

Jim cut him off, vaulting over the back of the couch and tackling Leonard, hands twisting in the shoulders of his cadet uniform and lips seeking his out.

Leonard stumbled back and fell to the floor, bringing Jim down with him. His hands slid around either side Jim's neck, palms flat against his pulse, tugging him closer, fingertips weaving in Jim's short hair. Jim slid a knee between Leonard's, body scraping against his, and a high noise came from his mouth and dissipated into Leonard's lips.

Leonard pulled back, panting for air, and wondered dimly why he'd never thought to shut Jim up like that.

"Oh, _Bones_," Jim said, hands on either side of Leonard on the floor. "I've _always --"_

And Leonard decided now was as good of time as any to try it out for himself.

He pushed himself up and kissed Jim, tongue sliding into his open mouth. Jim tasted like apples and tequila and ink, and Leonard really needed to remember to tell him to stop chewing on pens. And Jim moaned, one hand finding Leonard's and pinning it to the floor, and he forgot all about that.

They pulled apart again, and Leonard worked his way into sitting, still half-tangled up in Jim.

He could feel the heat pooling under his skin, and with the hand still twined in Jim's he gestured wordlessly towards the bed.

Jim stilled.

"Hey," Leonard said softly, reaching up to cup Jim's jaw with his free hand. "It's okay. This isn't wrong. This isn't bad."

Jim's eyes closed, lashes dark against his skin.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to." Leonard continued, "We never have to do anything you don't want to."

"And, well, I'm not sure about all the semantics, and I know some of these things sort of. . . But I'm not going to make you hurt." He promised. Pulling their tangled fingers towards him, he pressed a kiss quietly to Jim's hand.

Leonard watched Jim's throat as he swallowed.

"Okay," He said, looking up at Leonard with a small smile.

"You sure?" Leonard asked.

"Yeah," Jim said, pressing his open mouth lightly against Leonard's lips. "I'm sure."

They struggled up from the floor, Leonard dragging Jim's shirt over his head and stumbling over Jim's feet as they moved towards his bed.

He tugged off his shirt while Jim fumbled with the button on his pants, shivering as Jim's hands grazed over his hips. Jim sat back on the bed and pulled Leonard onto him.

It felt a little something like getting everything he ever wanted in the world, and beneath the blossoming haze in his mind Leonard wondered how anybody could ever think this was wrong.

Jim leaned back, an expanse of perfection beneath him, and Leonard straddled him, hard against him. Jim's hands skimmed up over the back of his legs, sliding beneath the cotton of his boxers.

"You sure about this?" Leonard asked again in a whisper, looking down into his own glossy reflection in Jim's eyes.

"Bones," Jim said, bending to slide his tongue up Leonard's throat. "Shut up."

And somewhere between the brush of fabric of Jim's pants against Leonard's skin and Jim pressing patterns of kisses in-between each curve of his ribs, Leonard did.

When he came quietly beneath Jim's fingertips he still couldn't speak, mouth parted around almost-silent noises.

And his mouth was far too busy doing other things when Jim came, skin hot to the touch and eyes closed, calling out words that meant nothing and everything and the same thing, over and over again.

But afterwards, lying next to him close enough to confuse their breathing, Jim's heartbeat thudding into his skin, Jim said, "I think I love you. Just thought you should know."

And then Leonard could finally speak again.

"Yeah," He said quietly, fingers tracing down the crests of Jim's vertebrae one by one, "Me too."

**

* * *

**

**You know who else didn't review? Hitler.**

_**Did. . . did you just make a Hitler joke? About reviews?**_

**. . . Yes.**

_**You're feeling a little ashamed of yourself now, aren't you?**_

**Little bit.**

_**But you still think it's kind of funny, don't you?**_

**Yep.**

_**Well. Alright then.**_


	15. Nail, Probity, Drench, Shut

**Disclaimer: Kein.**

**Warnings: **

**Nail -- Profanity, sex. Jim/Cupcake. . . What? Don't look at me like that. **

**Oh, you might read this and realize that there are in fact no nails involved at all, but "nail" is also slang for sex, and this is where my mind went first. Why yes, it is in the gutter, why do you ask?**

**Probity -- Profanity, implied violence. K&Mc comfort fluff.**

**Drench -- Nothing! K/S. Fluffy as baby ducklings sitting on angel food cake.**

**Shut -- Profanity, implied. . . something. K&Mc academy days comfort not-quite-fluff-but-yeah-pretty-much. **

**A/N: Sorry, I think these are even more eclectic than usual. Apologies in advance for any headaches trying to keep track while bouncing from one train of thought to another.  
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**Also, "Lovely" follow-up. This isn't it. It's better for me to post some random stuff, than to post nothing while working diligently until I finish it. Right? Probably not. But that's what we're doing anyway!**

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_Nail_

Cadet Uhura's legs are a-fucking-mazing, and I can't help but stare a little, lazy unbidden fantasies uncoiling in my mind. My fingers digging into her smooth soft skin and sliding up under her ridiculously short skirt. Wet hot hard more more more. Indistinguishable fill-in-the-blank sex that loops in the back of my mind without effort as I nurse my beer and scan the bar, looking for something exciting. I feel euphoric and drunk. High on the realization that _this is it_, I've done it, it's all about to begin. I've gotten into Starfleet. I'm going to make it.

I can feel my whole life about to begin. And it's a glorious feeling, and it makes my head weirdly light. Adrenalin pounds through my veins in discordance with the music.

I swallow the rest of my beer in one gulp and slide off of my stool. Maybe I'll get Cadet Uhura to sleep with me. Her eyes had been polite and distant and bored all night, but right now, with this feeling, I can't imagine getting a no.

I search for her in the crowded bar and frown a little when I find her. She's chatting with some pretty-boy townie. . . no, some pretty-boy townie is chatting her up

It makes me feel. . . indignant.

I'm part of Starfleet, now. My dad was part of Starfleet, and my dad's dad, and his dad before him. I bleed Starfleet.

Starfleet's the one that protects the civilians, that keeps them safe from dangers they didn't even know were out there. Starfleet is _better_ than all the rest of them.

And now some upstart townie jackass was making a move on Cadet Uhura, and really, I couldn't let that happen. It just. . . wouldn't be right.

I make my way over to talk to them, and it's not much of a conversation.

The townie, with his bright blue eyes and shit-eating grin, pats my cheek and calls me _Cupcake_.

I somehow manage only one punch before I'm down and out, and tomorrow, and the next day, that's what really stings.

The fist hits me hard. It hurts and stings and does for days after, slowly darkening into purple then black and then even more slowly reversing back through the rainbow.

Stupid fucking townie with his stupid fucking fists and his stupid fucking perfect smile.

The townie. . . Kirk, his name is Kirk, I will find out later. . . fights like someone unlocks a cage door inside of him and something wild and feral and rabid comes thrashing and killing and clawing out. Desperate and devil-may-care and with absolutely no restraint. No hang-ups, no inhibitions, no regard for his own life.

Kirk gets his face pounded in over and over, sticky blood coating his nose and lips and teeth and never, never ever, does that stupid smile go away. That stupid, stupid smile.

It makes me angry just to think about it.

What stings even more than the bruises on my face or my ego is when Kirk shows up on that shuttle with the same stupid smirk on his face.

Fuck.

Time passes. Summer waxes and wanes, Kirk's blond hair bleaching bright, and I think maybe I'll be able to avoid him. The academy grounds are a big place.

But it's not to be. Kirk is there, fucking the women I'd like to fuck and gliding through his classes with an unholy brilliance and doing it all with that same fucking smirk. Walking around with a swagger, muscles quicksilver beneath his cadet uniform, sunlight bright on his flawless skin.

I am supposed to be a member of Starfleet, Kirk is supposed to be a townie. Just some stupid townie who can be taught his place. But that's not the way things are now. They're skewed, and I can't quite wrap my head around it. My foundations are crumbling. The intrinsic laws of my world are breaking. The status quo is upset.

It pisses me off.

And I might be trying to ignore Kirk, but Kirk is doing no such thing. Kirk waves whenever he sees me, slaps me on the back when we pass close enough, or pats my cheek like he did that first day in that first bar. He calls me _cupcake_ and_ sweetie _and _angelface_.

A while after that first day in that first bar, there's another bar, miles and miles away from Iowa. San Francisco, and I just want to celebrate passing my final and _Kirk_ is there, of course, naturally, no fucking shit. Coincidence and happenstance and sometimes I'm pretty sure the universe just fucking hates me.

Kirk is drinking and laughing and flirting with everything that has a pulse, and some species of alien that I'm pretty sure don't.

I don't leave the bar right away, don't want this townie, this cadet, this whatever the fuck he is, to have that much power over me. Instead, I ignore Kirk, get my drinks, hang out with my friends, have a great time. And the night wears down and my friends drift off and I exit the bar the back way.

I step out into the darkened alley, soles of my boots crunching on broken glass. I look up at the night sky and see only darkness.

There is a brief pulse of sound, music and voices and laughter, as the bar backdoor swings open behind me, cutting off abruptly into silence when the door closes again.

I spin around and see an all-too-familiar figure stumbling into the alley. Of course. Naturally.

Kirk rests one hand on the cinderblock wall next to him, head bowed. He looks up slowly, eyes catching the muted city glow, and smirks at me.

_Hey, sugar_. Kirk says cheerfully, slouching against the wall. Lidded blue eyes, dark blond hair now that summer's slipping away, thick lips curving into that smirk.

And I really just want to _wipe that fucking smirk off his face._

I step forward before I can even think about it, hands fisting in Kirk's shirt, Kirk's heartbeat thudding against my knuckles through the thin fabric, and I slam him hard against the wall.

Kirk raises an eyebrow, slack in my grip, and I stare as he runs his tongue curiously over his lips.

_Easy, sweetcheeks_, Kirk murmurs, his breath warm against my night-cooled skin and smelling like beer and some alcohol sharper and stronger.

I snarl at him.

_The fuck, Kirk? _I ask. _Can't you just fucking leave me alone?_

Kirk shifts, smirk widening, and wedges apart my knees with his leg, sliding up against me. My muscles stiffen and I can feel my skin flush.

_You don't really seem to mind,_ Kirk whispers, rubbing against me like a cat in fucking heat.

I peel my lips back and bare my teeth, shoving him harder against the cinderblocks, feeling myself harden.

Kirk laughs at me, inches from my face.

_Easy, _Kirk says again, the laughter still colouring his voice. His hands move up and wrap loosely around my wrists, still twisted in his shirt.

I let go and grab his hands, slamming them against the wall and pinning them there. The back of his hands scrape against the rough concrete. I step forward until I'm flush against him. Kirk's skin is hot beneath the two layers of clothing, his and mine, and I can feel his heart pounding.

_You've been asking for this_, I growl, fingers tightening harshly around his hands. His skin whitens beneath my grip. _Ever since I've fucking met you you've been egging me on._

I step closer to Kirk and my face slides past his until all I can see is concrete. My hips jerk roughly against his.

_Yeah_, Kirk says unevenly in my ear. _I suppose I have._

He squirms in my grip and scrapes his hips against my hardness. His mouth catches my jaw, sudden clammy warmth, and works its way slowly in a series of open-mouthed kisses across my cheek to my mouth.

I bite down on his bottom lip until I taste the sudden tang of blood and Kirk moans. And then we're kissing like the world's falling down around us, lips pressing harshly against each other and brutal tongues and saliva that tastes like alcohol.

My hands drag Kirk's higher up on the wall, the cinderblocks grazing his knuckles so they leave dull bloody streaks on the coarse surface.

His knee slides out from between mine and I move between his legs, Kirk groaning at the motion. His throws his head back and it knocks hard against the concrete.

My mouth slips down to his arced throat, teeth biting just above the throb of his jugular vein. The low sounds Kirk has been making rise to a high begging whimper.

Kirk fights to free his hands and I only grip tighter, forcing them back. He digs his fingernails into my knuckles and I release him with a curse that gets buried in his skin.

And then Kirk's fingertips are skimming down my front to fumble with the button on my jeans.

My forehead drops to the wall above Kirk's shoulder, and I can smell my own breath as I pant. Kirk works my zipper down and then he's pulling denim and cotton past my hips.

My jeans get caught at the bend of my knees. Kirk shoves me back, just a little, to give himself some room.

_C'mon, cupcake_, He says, and then drops to his knees.

I think of the broken glass littering the alley floor and then there's nothing but the white noise of rapture as Kirk takes me in his mouth.

I can see his pink lips part around me and then my eyes squeeze so tightly shut they hurt. My fingers twist themselves in Kirk's winter-darkening hair.

Kirk draws back a little and I keen. His tongue darts out, I can feel the gentle damp brush of it against me. Each breath shudders in my lungs before it can escape, like a riled dog trapped in a cage.

My hips thrust forward and my head tilts back, eyes opening to see the never-ending darkness of the starless sky. I close my eyes again and rust-coloured halogen amoebas burst across the inside of my eyelids.

There's the edge of teeth against sensitive skin and then soft lips and then Kirk's fingers digging into my hips, holding me back, bringing me forward, and then heat and then darkness and then the stars become visible and then my own pulse pounding in my ears and then some noise that must come from me but I can't feel on my tongue and then flames beneath my skin and then

and then

and then

I catch myself on the cinderblock wall before I can fall to the ground, the texture rough against my palms. My jeans are still tangled half-way down my legs. Kirk unfurls himself into standing, sliding up between my two arms.

He smirks at me.

He wipes his lips with one hand. The blood is drying red-brown on his knuckles. His tongue darts out, glistening in the darkness, to clean his fingers as they pull away.

His other hand reaches up and pats me lightly on the cheek.

_Nice one, honey bunny, _He says, in that way that's almost not sarcastic.

Above the dim noise of the city rushing by just outside our cloistered alleyway, I give a hollow laugh.

* * *

_Probity_

"Dammit, Jim," Bones grinds out in exasperation, pulling the make-shift bandage tight around Kirk's upper-arm.

Jim is breathing hard and his fingers are clenching rhythmically into fists by his sides. Bones knows he's too busy focusing on not completely losing it right now to say anything. Which is just fine by him, because the idiot doesn't need to talk, just listen.

"Look, I get that you have this insane hero complex, alright?" McCoy says, shining a light into Jim's eyes to check his pupil reaction and make sure his eyeballs haven't made a run for it in a desperate attempt to get away from the wealth of stupidity just behind them. "But that doesn't mean you have to nearly _die_ every single freaking time you go off on one of your rescue missions."

Jim switches from breathing from his mouth to his nose, and the sound whistles through the fractured cartilage in the stagnant air.

"I mean, from what I've gathered most of your everyday heroes manage to get through the day just fine without a near death experience." McCoy pulls Jim's shirt up to check his ribs, the material sliding and crumpling over Jim's skin.

"Look at Superman," He continues, frowning at the colourful mélange of contusions imprinted on Jim's torso. "You never hear of him dying, do you?"

Jim flinches lightly as Bones presses on a particularly tender bruise in a rather alarming shade of black.

"Actually," The starship captain whispers, voice scratchy. "_Superman_ volume two, issue seventy-five. Late twentieth century. He dies fighting the super-villain Doomsday."

Bones pulls back, letting Jim's shirt ripple back down, and stares.

"What?" Jim says hoarsely. "I liked comic books as a kid."

McCoy shakes his head in exasperation. "The point is, Jim, that you don't _have_ to risk your life for everyone. You don't have to save everyone."

Jim stares at him blankly.

Bones grabs his hand, flipping it over to examine the deep lacerations carved into his palm. He runs a finger lightly along the edge of the shallowest of the cuts and feels Jim's skin shiver beneath his touch.

Jim did _have_ to, McCoy realizes with resignation. When it comes to the big stuff, there's only one direction on the kid's moral compass. There's only ever one answer. When most people are asking themselves if they should do the right thing, Jim's already doing it.

No black or white. No good or evil. Just white and good and here and now and always.

"Just try and stay away from the kryptonite, okay Superman?" Bones huffs.

Jim opens his mouth, dried blood cracking at the corner of his lips, and Bones cuts him off before he can say anything.

"And _don't _call me Lois Lane."

* * *

_Drench_

During their week on Precipus they've gotten used to the constant almost-but-not-quite raining. They've gotten used to the unchanging layered mess of silver and grey of the sky, to breathing damp air, to their hair frizzing out untamable. They've gotten used to the fact that it never actually rained.

And so it's a bit of a shock when the sky opens up like a dropped water balloon bursting against asphalt and it starts coming down in bucket-loads.

Spock stands there slightly frozen, eyes wide, as the rain pours gray and noisy, clattering against the street. Laughing, Jim grabs him by the wrist and drags him through the brick-and-concrete city, weaving through this alley and that until they duck under a shallow alcove.

Jim is still laughing when he presses Spock flat against the wall, cramming them both under the small shelter with the rain still pattering against his back. His skin feels strangely heavy, like he's absorbed the water like a sponge.

Spock blinks the rain water out of his eyes, dark hair plastered to his skin. And inches away, drenched to the bone, Jim can't really help but kiss him.

* * *

_Shut_

"Jim?" Bones asked quietly, knocking lightly on the door. He resisted the urge to add "_It's me," _because Jim already knew that. And he resisted the urge to ask _"Are you okay?" _because Bones was pretty sure _he_ knew the answer to that one.

There was the soft sound of movement on the other side of the door, someone shuffling over the antique carpet, but Jim didn't say a word.

"Hey," Bones said. "Think you want to open the door?"

He jiggled the handle, wishing pointlessly that their apartment wasn't so out-dated and he could just punch in an access code and be at Jim's side.

More shuffling noises, closer this time, and a quiet thump against the wooden door. Like someone had leaned against it and slid down into sitting.

"Okay," Bones said. "Okay. You don't have to open it. That's fine. I can understand that."

Bones lowered himself down and sat with his back to the door. He drew his knees up to his chest and let his head fall back against the wood with a dull thud.

"We can just do this, okay? This is fine. We can just sit here."

He pricked his ears at the small sound of Jim shifting, inches away but untouchable.

"That was pretty rough, wasn't it?" Bones asked conversationally to the empty hallway.

"Yeah," He continued to the silence. "That was pretty bad."

He dragged his fingers along the carpet.

"I'm sorry, Jim," He said quietly.

Bones sighed softly. He turned, carpet rough through his trousers, and pressed his palm flat against the wood. It was cool and smooth to the touch.

"I'm so goddamn sorry." He let his forehead drop to the door.

"It'll be okay though," He said hoarsely, mouth inches from the door, breath fogging the lacquered surface. "You'll be okay."

He turned back around, staring out at the quiet hall, sunlight leaking in through the window and painting patches of gold onto the floor. If he tried hard enough, he thought he could hear Jim breathing.

"And I'll be right here, alright?" Bones said. "Just on the other side of this door. I'll be here. Waiting. I'm not going anywhere."

"Take as long as you need." He said, and the hallway remained unchanging.

There was a quiet noise from the other side of the door, like someone choking back a sob.

Bones closed his eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere," He repeated.

* * *

**Review and get an awesome prize! A super-secret prize! Maybe it's a goldfish in a thin plastic baggie! Maybe it's a new car! Maybe it's a lifetime supply of canned peaches! Maybe it's nothing! You never know. . .**

**(Nothing. It's nothing.)  
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	16. Colorless

**Disclaimer: Mi.**

**Warnings: Profanity, violence, sensitive themes, prolixity. Dark.**

**A/N: "I felt like destroying something beautiful."**

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I am Bones.

This is my de-evolution. This is how everything I had crumbled into nothing. This is how my dreams faded away into stardust. This is how the greatest thing in the universe was utterly destroyed, and I watched.

This is my life.

Have you ever loved somebody so much it hurt? I have. I always love too much.

I am Bones, and he is Jim. Jim isn't dead, though he could be. He should be.

Jim isn't dead, and neither am I.

It starts on a Saturday.

* * *

This is how I remember it:

Shaden VI is hot enough for me to tug uncomfortably at my sleeves, sweat clinging between the cloth and my skin. The sky is darkening to the color of a fresh bruise above, but the dusk does nothing to damper the heat.

Jim's hair is darkened with sweat and his cheeks are scalded raw and pink from the sunlight. I have been bugging him all day to stay hydrated.

And now, a three-person war is waging.

I don't know what the Shaderian who stepped out suddenly from the alleyway, materializing like a sudden mirage in the desert, wants. I don't know what he and Jim are arguing about.

I know Jim had laughed and raced ahead of me while I struggled with the crudely-drawn map of the city, trying to find the way back to our lodgings. I know we were late and I just wanted to get to bed and sleep. I know I was twenty paces behind and still trying to figure out which way was up on the unhelpful map when the bulky Shaderian had tapped Jim on the shoulder and started something.

Jim spins around, and both of their backs are to me. They can't see me, but I can see them.

I can see the Shaderian pull out a gun, some cumbersome alien thing with copper wires looping to the end of the barrel and a dully glowing green orb nestled on top of the handle. I can see them, but they can't see me.

I can see them struggle.

I can see Jim loose his footing on the dirt street and start to fall to the ground.

I am helpless. There is nothing I can do.

A gunshot cracks in the air.

I can see the gore.

* * *

I am scared.

The fluorescent lights are shivering faintly as the Shaderian law enforcement officers march me down the steel hallway. My hands aren't cuffed, but their grip on my upper arms is tight and unwavering. I lose track of where we're going, there's too many turns or my mind is too numb.

They haven't let me see Jim.

I don't think it's Saturday anymore.

It's been a while now, waiting in a clinical room while papers were being processed. They'd given me coffee, or something that tasted close enough.

Finally my escorts, my guards, stop at an unmarked doorway. One of them punches in a short code on a number pad and the door slides open. Inside, it looks like an interrogation room. There are more shaky fluorescents on the low ceiling and a table bolted to the floor. I can see my reflection in the mirror that takes up one wall, what I guess is a two-way. I wonder dimly who's on the other side.

One of the officers pulls out a steel chair and gestures wordlessly for me to sit. I comply, staring at myself in the mirror.

The officer sits across from me, back to the two-way mirror. His partner leans casually against the wall behind me.

The officer pulls out a PADD and scans through it, humming to himself, ignoring me. My fingers twitch and I try not to fidget.

I am innocent of all crimes.

Finally, the officer spins the PADD around and slides it across the table to me. I stare at the picture on the screen. I imagine the faceless men behind the two-way mirror are waiting for my reaction.

"His name was Marcus Stakross," The Shaderian says.

Marcus's face has exploded. But I knew that already. I was there.

The Shaderian who had accosted Jim in the street that night, the bullet had blown apart his skull and his skin and every emotion that had been written across his face. His head had turned into a pulpy mess, red and sloppy and slimy. Blood and brain matter had splattered across Jim's sunburned cheeks.

"Your friend killed him," The officer adds.

"It was self-defense," I say. "That guy just came out of nowhere. He attacked Jim."

The Shaderians say nothing. I bet the men behind the mirror don't even blink.

"We didn't do anything wrong," I insist. "We were just going home. . . just going back to where we were staying. We're federation officers. With the _Enterprise. _Hell, Jim's the damn captain."

In the mirror, I can see the Shaderian behind me light up a long purple cigarette.

"Dammit, you saw my credentials. Your people took mine and Jim's IDs hours ago. I want to talk to my superior officers. You can't hold us here." I'm not shouting. My voice is heated and angry, but in the small, quiet room, I can't shout.

"Where's Jim?" I demand, when the two officers still say nothing. "I want to see him."

My fingers have curled crooked and pale around the PADD showing Marcus's destroyed face without me realizing it.

"What have you done with Jim?" I ask.

And then the officer behind me flicks off the light-switch.

* * *

It will be okay, Jim had said. Relax, Bones. It will be fine.

It's all going to be okay.

You live your entire life around moment. You might not even recognize it when it's happening, but after it's gone, you just want it back. It doesn't matter how long you last, you'd give anything to just have those five minutes or five seconds once more. You spend the rest of your life trying to get them back. One time in your life, one instance, that's all you want.

I would trade it all for that one moment with Jim, human flesh and blood staining his sun-burnt cheeks, smiling reassuringly and telling me it would be okay.

* * *

The Bones in the mirror disappears as the sudden shift in light turns it to glass. Instead, I can see into the adjoining room.

Through a glass, darkly.

The room is starkly white, lit with unwavering fluorescents. There is a padded chair with too many joints, harsh chrome floodlights bending around it.

Jim is strapped to the chair.

I can recognize medical equipment and people who must be doctors in high-collared white coats hovering around him.

Jim is staring through the pane of glass exactly where I am standing, but I don't think he can see me.

There is a tray of complicated surgical instruments a foot from his chair. The blade-tips glint sharply.

"We don't tolerate murderers," The Shaderian in front of me has spun in his chair to watch the show. His voice is blank. "Our justice is swift."

This isn't justice.

"What are they doing?" I say hoarsely. "What the hell are they going to do to him?"

"We don't have a death penalty on Shaden," The officer continues, staring out the glass. "We find it to be. . . inhumane. Instead, we simply have a procedure to incapacitate our criminals."

"What?" I ask, and my brain doesn't comprehend.

I am so stupid.

"A simple surgery that allows our convicts to be released back into society with the assurance that they will not become repeat offenders. We do it to protect our law-abiding citizens, and to protect the convicts from themselves." The officer's fingers are rapping out a mindless pattern on the steel table. It echoes hollowly.

In the next room, Jim's eyes are flickering from one doctor to the next. I can see his muscles strain beneath his bonds.

"You can't perform _surgery_ on him!" I say, hands gesturing wildly. "For god's sake, he's a Starship captain! You can't do this! This isn't legal!"

"This is the law on Shaden VI," The officer drones.

"He didn't do anything wrong. He's not a convict! He hasn't been convicted of anything! It's only been one night," I gasp. My chair stutters on the floor as I stand up.

The officer explains dryly, "I assure you, James Kirk has been processed already, in accordance with Shaden laws. He has been found guilty of murder, and sentenced to incapacitation."

There's something about the way his words twist around Jim's name.

This isn't about justice.

This is about destroying someone.

"You can't do this," I say again.

The Shaderian shrugs. "We've already started."

Through the glass, a doctor has picked up a razor. The silver blades whir beneath the lights. Jim's bindings are too tight for him to thrash, but his muscles tense and fight futilely none the less. His mouth is moving, he's talking, cursing, screaming, but I can't hear a thing.

A horror movie on mute.

Jim's pupils are blown with fear.

The doctor begins to shave his head.

* * *

I am raging against the glass.

The officers are pulling me back, my fists pounding dully against the untextured surface. I am screaming, and Jim can't hear me.

I am worthless.

Jim is awake.

His head is shaved clean and the doctors begin. They blot his forehead with sterilized orange goop, smearing it across his skin. He shouts and tries to bite, and a doctor rolls his eyes above his mask, clamping his hand under Jim's jaw and holding it shut, bracing his other hand on the back of Jim's head.

Jim's eyes spell death.

Another doctor runs his fingers over the tray of surgical blades, picking up one fondly.

And they slice.

I fight the Shaderians holding me. I thrash.

I yell the truth to them. _It wasn't murder! Jim didn't murder anybody!_

I try and claw my way through the glass.

Jim bleeds.

They sweep up the luridly red blood with cotton and keep cutting. They peel back his skin, showing layers of pink and red. They chip away at his skull.

And I scream.

Jim's agony is spilled out across his face, eyes rolling. His chest heaves and his fingers are twisted around the armrests of the chair, gouging the padding there.

His pupils are huge, and I wonder from far away if it's only terror or if they've drugged him with something.

The doctors stick blades into his brain.

I watch them slice my best friend's brain up, I watch him writhe in his bonds. I watch them light up something that glows brightly blue. I can't tell if it's lasers or flame. But when they stick it past Jim's gaping skull it smokes.

They burn his brain.

The blood has run past the cotton down his face. He is still staring right at me, and I can tell the exact moment when all the lights go out. It's one instant, and the liveliness bleeds out of his expression. His cognition evaporates in a split-second. His eyes go dull as death.

They hack into Jim's brain, and then he's gone.

I've slid to the ground on my knees, dragging the officers with me. I've torn my nails on the glass and left bloody streaks across the smooth surface, wet red prison bars caging the perverted operating room in front of me. My face is hot and wet and I can't tell if I'm screaming or sobbing, and all I can hear is my pulse in my ears.

I am no one.

Saturday is long gone.

* * *

I am a doctor, and I can't save Jim.

* * *

Have you ever destroyed someone, just for the fun of it? They did.

They took something perfect, something so breath-taking it hurt just to look at. Something that made eyes burn at the sight of it. Something that they could never hope to be.

Pull the wings off of a butterfly one by one. Burn Renoir and Rubens to ash. Smash a piano to sawdust.

Break someone.

Violate perfection for your own release. Purge yourself with an act of devastation. Get off on tragedy. Make yourself feel better by making someone else feel worse.

Tell me, does it work?

Is it worth it?

Was _he_ worth it?

He is broken.

So am I.

* * *

Brain damage. Hah. To put it mildly.

In the sickbay, Jim is asleep. I'm not sure I ever want him to wake up.

I've patched his skull back together, reworked his skin. The scars on the surface will heal. Even his hair will grow back. Latest technology means they'll be no visible trace.

His brain is done for.

I had to look at the congealing mess inside his head while I tried desperately to fix him. When I had to stop surgery to vomit up everything I've ever eaten in my life, it looked pretty much the same.

Latest technology, every technology, every procedure out there, sanctioned and un-sanctioned. They've all failed.

I am a failure.

The reports are in. Jim is massively brain-damaged. I research what I can expect him to be now, just to torture myself.

It's like watching a solar eclipse, with the knowledge that it will never again be bright.

I am afraid of the dark.

* * *

This is Jim, now.

He has the mental capacity of a kindergartener. On good days.

He can't talk so well. It's like he's forgotten what vowels are.

When I get upset while typing, I smash my hands down on the keyboard, pressing too many keys at once.

Jim sounds like he's reading my anger.

He can't ask for what he wants with words, but that's okay, because he doesn't really know what he wants.

He can't remember very well, either. Things last a few minutes than fade away like old Polaroids. He doesn't really remember people, or objects, or instructions.

On bad days, Jim thrashes and screams. He lashes out at whoever's closest, biting and clawing with his nails. Like an abused dog.

Luckily, there aren't many bad days.

Most of the time, Jim isn't so much a wild dog as he is a family pet. Some big happy dog that's always ecstatic to see you. You can hit that kind of dog, and it will still come up to you with its tail wagging. Most of the time, Jim has a big dumb grin on his face like a Labrador retriever.

I can feel the cold wet comet-tails of tears on my face and I realize that I'm crying. I just compared my best friend, the smartest person I knew, to a fucking dog. My throat hurts, like choking on broken glass.

Jim is _not a dog._

_

* * *

  
_

The world is different now. Duller. Desaturated.

This is my never-ending solar eclipse. This is my night-vision. This is my dim.

I am colorless.

* * *

Jim is my everything. He always was. Except now he actually needs me.

He doesn't know my name. He doesn't know who I was to him, only that now I'm the person who feeds him and cleans him and talks to him.

I talk to Jim a lot, now. Say anything I want. He gives me the same blank stare.

I hope he knows that I love him.

I will give anything for Jim. I always would. Except now I might actually have to.

I am devoted.

He is mostly quiet, now.

* * *

Lots of Saturdays go by. Jim and I are on earth.

I handed in my resignation as soon as it was official that Jim would never again captain anything.

Starfleet is giving Jim a hefty pension. Golden boy that he is. Was.

The media frenzy might have something to do with that.

They're paying for all of his medical bills too, and have him set up at their very own cutting-edge centers for treatment.

I'm also getting a pension, just a few decimals to the left of Jim's. It's not really enough. I take a job at a local hospital with some trepidation.

Time at work means time away from Jim. Jim's only ever at the Starfleet treatment centers a few hours a day. It means I'll have to hire a nurse to help take care of him.

He's _my_ Jim, isn't he?

At any rate, Jim and I settle into a small San Francisco flat. We don't need much. It's set up for all of Jim's needs, child-proof locks on the cabinets, that sort of thing.

It's nice enough. The view's alright.

* * *

Jim and I settle into something like a routine.

Breakfasts. Baths. Walks in the park. Dinner times. Long days at the hospital and coming home to Jim following me around silently, like a shadow. Sometimes he twists his fingers in the back of my shirt, like he's afraid he'll get lost in our flat.

We walk by a toy store one day and Jim's eyes go wide at the bright colors and movements. We end up going in and I end up spending more money than I thought I would, and it almost feels like happiness.

I seek out brightness for him, now. Carnivals and fairs, technicolor holovids and illustrated picture books. Colors.

Jim likes colors.

* * *

I wonder if Jim is still in there, sometimes.

Maybe he's still awake inside his head. Maybe he's locked in there, screaming to get out.

Maybe he thinks that the gargling noises he's making are actually words, and he doesn't understand why nobody is listening.

Maybe what he's saying is _help me, Bones, please, help me, save me, I need you, I'm trapped, please listen to me, help me help me help me._

The tests all mock me. There's no one home.

I am waiting for a fairy-tale ending, and reality keeps kicking me in the face.

* * *

I am the perfect host.

One by one, they all come to visit.

Sulu and Chekov come by together, the helmsman's hand tight on Chekov's shoulder. I lead them into the living room and make coffee. Jim is on the floor playing with his miniature plastic motorcycle. Chekov gets down on his knees and talks to him softly. It's sweet. Jim lets him play with his toys.

Sulu slumps on the couch with his coffee growing cold in his hands. We make painful small-talk.

I catch sight of Chekov's face eventually. I shouldn't be so surprised to see his eyes wet and his skin red and stained with tears.

Jim leans over and erases a silvery tear-print with his thumb. Sulu smothers a sob.

Uhura stops by later, nervous and with her mascara already running. I let her in. Best damn communications officer in the fleet that she is, she can't figure out how to talk to Jim. The pity in her eyes makes me angry, at first. But then I don't know whether to be depressed or furious when I realize it's directed at me.

Spock visits last.

I think I'm angry at him, for not showing up sooner. Sooner, like before some crazy savages started carving into Jim's brain. I'm angry at him for not saving Jim. But I let him in anyway, because what else could I do?

He and Jim had something, some fledgling bond with the potential to grow into something great. Something powerful. A friendship that would rock the universe. Even I could see it. Now that's over and done with, I guess.

Spock questions me about Jim's health, watching him from a safe distance away. Eventually I escape to the kitchen, where I mull over the liquor cabinet and wonder what I could hide in my tea.

When I come back in, Spock's kneeling in front of Jim. His fingertips are pressed to Jim's face.

He has a look of such anguish as he pulls back and falls to the ground.

I run over to help him up and he flinches beneath my touch. With stumbling grace, he pulls himself into standing.

He grabs his coat and heads for the door without looking back.

"It would be illogical for me to stay when Jim cannot comprehend my presence," He says, and I half-wonder if I'm imagining the despair coloring his voice.

"Spock, wait--" I say, but the door closes in front of my face.

I think about going out to stop him, to drag him back. But I don't.

I think it hurts too much for Spock. I think it feels like he's bleeding-out whenever he looks at Jim. I think he can't love Jim anymore without killing himself.

Yeah. I get it.

I trudge back into the living room, where Jim is sitting, staring blankly at the floor.

"Nice going, Jim," I say.

Jim looks up and gives me a Labrador-smile.

* * *

Christine Chapel comes by.

She brings brownies.

I let Jim have one before dinner and Christine helps me make spaghetti the old-fashioned way.

Jim is sitting Indian-style on the floor, playing with his miniature toy cars, racing them across the ground. I watch him take a little classic red thing and make it nose-dive off the back of the sofa.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Christine says when we're all sitting around the dining room table. I take a napkin and gently wipe off the red sauce Jim's gotten on his cheek.

"Do what?" I ask, pretending not to understand.

"You don't have to stay." She says. "You can come back to the _Enterprise._"

I say nothing.

"Jim wouldn't want you to do this," She argues. "He'd want you to live your life."

Jim's dad died while he was being born, his mom left over and over again while he was growing up, his brother ran away when he was a kid, his step-dad tried to throw him out of his home.

Jim would want me to stay.

I tell her as much.

"It's not fair," She says, looking at me with beseeching eyes.

This is fair.

This is justice.

I am all Jim has.

* * *

I am nothing without Jim.

I was nothing without Jocelyn.

Jocelyn, gorgeous Jocelyn. Jocelyn, with her big wet eyes and her blow-job lips and her back-combed, aerosol-hardened, bright-dyed hair. Jocelyn, who sashayed around Georgia with her elbow linked in mine, in dresses that showed off her perfect boobs or her perfect legs – but not both, never both, because Jocelyn had standards, Jocelyn had class. But all Jocelyn really had was me. Me and my money.

Jocelyn, who walked all over me in her fuck-me heels.

I left Jocelyn to find myself, and instead I found Jim.

I am a sucker for codependency.

But Jim and I, our relationship wasn't really codependent. Just dependent, me on him.

I am a parasite.

I needed Jim, needed him like food and air and water and every stupid love song was right. I needed Jim, but Jim didn't need me. Stars don't need planets orbiting around them to be bright.

I am Pluto.

A few hundred years ago some scientists changed their minds and decided they'd made a mistake and Pluto wasn't a planet after all. They revoked Pluto's rights. They sent Pluto a dear-John letter. _It's not you, it's me. _Pluto wasn't a planet. Pluto was just a rock, floating through endless, helpless black cosmos.

I am not even a planet.

I am a self-pitying bastard, and I make myself sick.

* * *

I am tired.

I punch in the code for our flat, and I wonder if it's a terrible thing that I'm looking forward to seeing Jim. To seeing him smile at me like I'm the brightest part of his day. Like every time he looks at me things just got better.

I wonder if I'm a terrible person for loving him so much, just like this.

I stop wondering. It's not important. What's important is I have dinner to make and I've finally managed to track down my own favorite childhood story for bedtime. _Pinocchio. _Who doesn't want to be a real boy?

* * *

That old broken record keeps stuttering in my mind, the needle carving a canyon in the vinyl. I play it over and over again.

Saturday morning, our hotel receptionist tells me the city's not safe.

Saturday night, Marcus Stakross appears like an apparition in the twilight.

Jim and Marcus. Arguing. Struggling.

I can see them, but they can't see me.

That strange alien gun.

I am helpless.

Gunshot. Blood. Brains. Death.

Punishment.

It will be okay, Bones.

I am empty.

* * *

I am resigned.

I wonder if complacency is wrong, but I've settle into this life, now. Accepted it.

Mostly.

Starfleet's treatments are not working.

Jim cries when I force him to go to the center each day.

The treatments are invasive and painful and futile.

They treat Jim like he's an experiment. Or like he's a doll, glassy-eyed and unreal. I'm not really sure which is worse.

Jim is not a _doll, _or a dog. He's a person.

I tell the Starfleet scientists it's over.

I have this idea now, of going back down South. Taking Jim with me, getting a nice quiet house. Someplace with a backyard. Jim would like that.

The Starfleet scientists give me shark-like smiles and I am reminded of other white-coated doctors who could care less about oaths.

They tell me I can't take Jim. They tell me if I try they'll take him away from me.

I snarl at them and tell them to go fuck themselves.

The media is putting pressure on them, I'm sure, to make it look like they're giving their golden boy the best treatment.

But right now the best treatment is no treatment at all.

I pull a few strings. Captain Spock of the _Enterprise_ and Admiral Pike both back me up.

The Starfleet doctors crumple like houses of cards and watch me lead Jim out with sour glares.

Jim laughs as he steps into the sun.

* * *

We have that little house down in Georgia, now. It's got white paint and black shutters and white gardenias growing out front.

I'm building a fence around the backyard, so Jim can't wander off. At dusk I watch him chase fireflies in the growing darkness.

It almost feels like home.

It's one early afternoon, and I'm at the kitchen table scanning through PADDs. Jim is just in my line of sight in front of the TV, watching some holovid with neon colors.

There's a soft knock on the door.

I get up to answer it with no idea who might be there. I'm not expecting any visitors.

I peek through the thin pane of glass set at eye level and give a start. It's Spock.

Not that Spock. The other Spock.

Bemusedly, I open the door.

"Hello, doctor," This old Spock says.

"Uh, hi." I answer. "Do you want to come in?"

"Thank you." I step back to allow him through the door.

"I have come, of course, to visit Jim. If that is alright with you?" Spock explains, raising an eyebrow. I have a feeling I really couldn't stop him if I wanted to.

"Of course," I say. "You know about. . ."

"I am aware of his condition, yes," Spock says. The sorrow in his eyes is unfathomable.

His Jim is dead. This Jim is broken. It just seems to happen over and over again, doesn't it?

I can't imagine anything worse.

"He's in the living room."

I hover in the doorway, watching as Spock bends on old knees down to Jim's level, talking to him. His voice is pleasant and not at all demeaning. I'm sort of surprised. Not many people talk to Jim like that, like he's still a person. It makes me feel. . . warm.

For a moment, I am happy.

* * *

Spock somehow manages to worm his way into our lives. I'm sure it's all carefully planned out on his part, but for me it just feels natural. He loves to read to Jim, stories of far-off planets and adventures, making colors with his words.

Jim has a hard time remembering who he is, at first, and is a little scared each time they're re-introduced. Gradually he grows accustomed to Spock, no longer hesitant when he arrives but eager.

"You are lucky," Spock says in his deep, even voice one day.

I can't help but snort. "Oh yeah, why's that?"

We're on the back-porch, watching Jim dig through the spring mud.

"You are the only person I have ever seen Jim never approach with fear or trepidation. The only one he has never needed to be reminded of." Spock elaborates.

I think of Jim staring right at me through opaque glass while his brain is mutilated, and wonder if I was the last person he saw.

"He loves you," Spock says.

I wonder if Jim has the capacity for love.

I always love too much.

* * *

I am an alcoholic.

Like those support-groups. _Hello, my name is Len, and I'm an alcoholic._

Except not like those support-groups, those free-coffee and fold-up chair collections of self-loathing. Because this isn't a confession. _I am an alcoholic. _This isn't an admission of guilt. This isn't the first step, or any step.

This isn't evolution or self-improvement. Fuck the metamorphosis. I want to stay a fucking caterpillar.

_I am an alcoholic._ And I'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

This isn't emotional triage, identifying my wounds and tearing them open. This is a statement of fact. This is the laws of physics, this is mathematical proofs, this is the sky is blue. I am an alcoholic.

I am drinking, my taste-buds numb to the burn of alcohol. At first, I didn't think drinking would make me forget. I didn't think there was an alcohol strong enough in the universe to make me forget. Stupid. I was wrong, because it does. Four glasses, five glasses, eight glasses, stop counting and start again glasses later, I forget.

I drink until the world goes by like stop-motion photography, where I only see every other moment with flashes of nothing in-between. And I forget.

Passed-out, I forget. Those first few moments in the morning, hung-over and head pounding like dropping h-bombs one by one inside my skull, I forget.

Jim gives a soft whimper in his sleep and I remember again, and I reach for the closest half-empty bottle.

Half-empty. Hah. Guess Jim was always right when he called me a pessimist.

I'd rather have a bottle in front of me, than a frontal lobotomy.

Ha fucking ha.

* * *

It still plays through my head every day in the background, a constant soundtrack to my life.

I can see them, but they can't see me.

Jim and Marcus Stakross fighting.

Jim falling.

An alien gun firing.

Marcus's head blowing apart into a million little red pieces.

Jim being destroyed.

Me watching.

It will be okay, Bones. I promise.

Screaming the truth to two callous Shaderian guards, and it's the same as if no one could hear me.

I am so sorry.

* * *

Jim gives me a gift.

Finger-painting. Bright colors. All the colors I never really notice nowadays. I stare at the whorls of neon and try to make sense of them and I can't.

But Jim presses it into my hands with solemn eyes, so I thank him and keep it.

I wonder if Jim has the capacity for love, sometimes.

And sometimes he hugs me like I'm the only thing keeping him grounded, or weaves his fingers through mine like I'm all he needs. Sometimes he smiles at me and it's like he's saying it out loud.

Sometimes.

I am bittersweet.

* * *

I am hard.

My cock is hard, I mean. Well, I suppose I am hard, too. Hardened by this. What's that old fortune-cookie bullshit about hot fires and the strongest steel? Some mutation of _what doesn't kill you makes you stronger._

Yeah, right. What doesn't kill you makes you wish you were dead.

But, anyway, back to my point. Back to my cock. Hard inside my trousers.

I am thinking about the time Jim and I fucked.

Back sometime after we'd managed to become best friends. If you're going to have a gay experience, it might as well be with your best friend.

We were drunk. We were sloppy. We fucked like there was no tomorrow.

It might not have been the best orgasm of my life. I don't really remember it all that well. I wouldn't have told Jim that, anyway. Didn't want him getting arrogant.

Jim is lying on the couch, sleeping. I can see his eyeballs twitching beneath their lids. He looks good. Sleep becomes him. I am watching his chest rise and fall steadily, counting his breaths and then starting over and counting again when I'm distracted by my own erection.

I think I'm going to be sick.

Jim is lying next to me, his brains turned into cottage cheese, the mentality of a five-year old. He can't consent to anything, and I'm thinking of the time I fucked him.

Fucked his brains out.

I haven't had sex in a long time.

* * *

I am contemplating murder.

I wonder if Jim would be better off dead. I wonder if Jim would be better off if that bullet had blown apart his brain instead of Marcus's. I wonder if Jim would be better off if he had gotten the death sentence. I wonder if Jim would be better off if he had bled out during surgery.

I wonder if Jim would be better off if I smothered him in his sleep.

* * *

We are staying at a motel on Shaden VI. I am waiting for Jim in the lobby, and the hotel receptionist waves me over surreptitiously.

Here, he says. Here. He slides a newspaper over his desk towards me. I peek under the gray edge, and see a strange bulky gun with confusing copper wires coiling around its barrel and a pulsing green sphere set in its handle.

Here, he says. The city's not safe.

Saturday, and Jim and Marcus are struggling over an alien gun. A Shaden VI standard gun. I can see them, but they can't see me. In the shadows, no one can see me.

The weight of an identical weapon is heavy in my bag.

Jim and Marcus are fighting. Jim is falling.

I am helpless. There's only one thing I can do.

I pull out the gun and, fingers trembling, aim it at the tussling pair. The gun makes a curious zapping sound and then a bang as the bullet fires.

Marcus's head explodes.

Bang.

I am the one who actually shot Marcus.

That punishment was for me.

Here, Jim says, taking the gun out of my still shaking hands and tossing it into the shadows. Here, these people are crazy, let me handle it. I don't know what they're going to do, but better me than you. Don't worry. We'll figure something out.

It'll be okay, Bones. Promise.

It will all be okay.

Bang.

Justice is served.

* * *

Saturday didn't make any sense.

It didn't make sense for the Shaderian to step out of the shadows and attack Jim. It didn't make sense for me to pull out a strange gun and shoot him in the head. It didn't make sense for Jim to take the fall for me.

Nothing makes sense.

* * *

It begins on a Saturday, and it never ends.

This is my life. That's the way it works – it never ends, until you're dead. And Jim and I, neither of us is dead yet.

I am alive.

I am Leonard McCoy. This is my soul, eroding. This is my fall from grace. This is my apocalypse. This is my Genesis and my Revelations and my psalm of praise. Hallelujah.

This is my life.

I am Leonard McCoy. There's no one left to call me Bones.

I am home, and Jim is waking up now, and I have to go.

I have another Saturday to live through.

* * *

**Would appreciate your thoughts.**


	17. Touch

**Disclaimer: Dim.**

**Warnings: Language, sexual situations. K/S.**

**A/N: I know, I know it's been bloody _forever_ since I updated. I'm incredibly sorry. But put down your torches and pitchforks, I come bearing gifts! Here you go:**

**

* * *

**

_Touch_

What Jim remembers of Nitidi X are the bright green and blue leaves, like peacock feathers, on the slender white branches of the trees. He remembers the rose-coloured light of the two suns, one small and white and almost like the sun back on earth, and the other massive and swollen and pink and dying slowly. Blinking slowly in the light. He remembers the thin grasses, so pale, pale gold, that shifted in the light wind like the surface of the sea. Rasping as he moved through them. He remembers the colour of the brown earth staining his shoes and the way the suns sparked on the tepid water of the lake like a million shattered diamonds.

He remembers the high musical notes of the birds, with their long curving necks and bright feathers, the way they flicked and flitted in flashes of jewel-tones through the leaves of the trees. He remembers the quiet shushing of the wind, and the lake rhythmically lapping against the shore, and a hundred insects he couldn't see chirping and buzzing. Hearing the hoof-beats of the Equperies, which had soft downy feathers and large trusting eyes, and reminded him a little of a horse and a deer but not quite either.

He remembers Ensign Quardi's bright red shirt and the toffee colour of Dr. Ferria's clear skin and Ensign Malachi's mint-green hair, glossy in the suns. He remembers Quardi's quiet, melodic voice with the accent he couldn't quite place, and the short, high shriek Ferria had given when she'd lost her footing and he'd grabbed her to keep her from falling. He remembers Malachi's white teeth flashing when he smiled, Ferria snapping her fingers restlessly, Quardi's hazel eyes, clear and bright, the sound of their own footsteps, the cloudy sky, laughter, colours. Hundreds and hundreds of bright noisy memories.

But mostly he remembers the brilliant flash-bang of brightness suddenly burning his eyes and the shrill wail that he knew must be coming from somewhere but seemed to have blossomed inside his own skull. Overwhelming sound-light erupting from nowhere. Dropping to his knees. _Loud and bright and white and high and so, so much he couldn't bear it. . ._

And then there was darkness, and quiet, and for a while there, he didn't remember anything at all.

* * *

There are people touching him.

Hands gripping his forearms, holding him down. The brush of sleeves against his skin. There are people touching him, and he doesn't know who they are, and he fights. Thrashing, and they hold him down tighter.

It smells of cleanliness and sickness.

It is dark here, and too quiet. He can see nothing and hear nothing, and he growls low in his throat, feels it rumble in the back of his mouth but can't catch the actual sound. Still snarling, or at least it feels like he is, he bucks. Back arched, his shoulders scraping across the padded surface he's lying on. He breaks free with one arm and lunges upwards, throwing a punch. His knuckles connect with skin and bone, hard blunt impact. Jaw, he thinks, from the edge he felt, a hard line against the uneven surface of his finger bones. Before he can follow through they swarm over him and pin him back down, warm flesh through cloth. Pressure. The familiar curves of arms and hands and slick-dry-smooth-warm skin. Sweat. Human smell.

Movements, and then another smell, this one overwhelmingly familiar. Earthy and male and clean. Like medicine and whiskey, and maybe neither of those things, maybe he's only imaging that. _Bones_, he thinks, briefly, and then there is a sharp prick in his neck and he is aware that he is falling unconscious but the world doesn't get any darker.

* * *

He wakes again. There is no one touching him, this time, just the soft, barely noticeable weight of a blanket pulled up to his shoulders and cool sheets beneath him. He blinks once, twice, and the world is still dark. Still quiet.

It still smells sterile and medicinal and familiar, and this time he's thinking coherently enough to realize he has to be in the sickbay. He really should recognize it; he's been here often enough.

There's pressure over his eyes, light pressure. He tugs his arms out from beneath the blanket and gently prods his face with his fingertips. Gauze. Padding. Bandages. His eyes don't hurt at all.

He's trying to figure out exactly what's going on when. . . something. . . alerts him to another presence in the room. A shift in air pressure, a minute change in temperature, some primal sixth sense. He doesn't know, but he freezes. Like a rabbit in a hawk's shadow.

_Hello?_

He asks, or tries to. His tongue moves in his mouth, brushing against the backs of his teeth, dry lips part, burning slightly and begging for water. No sound.

_Hello?_ he tries again, louder, and there's still nothing, no sound from him or whomever's standing there, watching. He can feel their eyes on him. Goosebumps crawl across his skin.

Before he can _(not)_ say anything else, someone picks up his hand. The contact is sudden and he moves to draw away and react, to hit, to fight, to run. And then he freezes. Pianist's fingers, thin and long that feel more delicate than he knows they are. Hotter than human. Achingly familiar.

_Spock,_ he says, or doesn't say.

The hand holding his squeezes, gently, twisting until their fingers twine together.

He wants to ask what the hell is going on, but he's not sure what kind of answer he expects. He can't see and he can't hear and it's so damn _dark_ and so damn _silent _and he's _alone. . ._

He can feel the fingers of Spock's other hand brush lightly along his temple, smoothing back his unwashed hair. He turns into Spock's forearm, nuzzling him, letting his lips part around his skin without enough pressure to really be a kiss. Warmth against him. A pulse point under his lips. He breathes in deeply that exotic, organic, new-penny smell.

Not alone then. Well. Maybe things would be okay.

* * *

Spock's fingers are still twined through his when he finally wakes again, and he feels-smells-knows another presences.

_Bones,_ he greets, assumes he greets, unable to hear his own voice. The bed shifts as Bones sits down besides him. Jim can feel his body heat radiating next to his hip.

_How's it going?_ he asks, grinning slightly. _Oh, don't roll your eyes at me._

The bed shifts again as Bones moves. _No, I still can't see. Or hear, for that matter. You're really just that predictable._

A hand on his face, and he holds still. Bones checks his bandages with practised, steady fingers.

_I'm fine, Bones._ . . _Didn't I just say not to roll your eyes?_

He has the uncomfortable feeling his voice might be terribly loud.

_How's the rest of the team?_ he asks. There is a moment of nothing and then Spock squeezes his hand.

_Oh_, he says. McCoy's hands stop fiddling with his bandages and trail lightly down his cheek for just an instant.

He doesn't know if Spock and Bones are talking, or what they're saying, or what the_ fuck _is going on, and this blind/deaf thing is horrifically like being alone. Isolation. He wonders fantastically for a terrible moment if he's just imaging the touches and the scents and the heat, if he really is all by himself.

He's going mad.

He swallows hard and forces himself not to laugh hysterically, because that really would be crazy.

_How's my ship_? he asks instead, and there is an immediate reassuring squeeze from Spock and a brush of warm air against his face that he thinks might be Bones sighing in exasperation.

_Good._ _Try and keep it that way, will ya? _Another huff of warmth against his skin.

Bones finishes whatever the hell he's been doing with Jim's face and sits back. Jim gives a lopsided smile to where he thinks he's sitting, annoyance and reassurance all wrapped up in one attractive facial expression.

His palm is sweaty in Spock's grasp.

More dark-quiet-nothing passes, and Jim resists the urge to whistle. Not like he could hear it, anyway.

Finally, he asks the question, and it's not any easier even though he knows he won't be able to hear the answer.

_Is this going to be permanent?_

McCoy's hand is on his shoulder and Spock lets him go to cup his cheek. It's quick and confident and positive and _Oh, god,_ that's a relief.

He lets his head fall back to hit the pillow and licks his dry lips. _How long, then?_

No response except for Spock turning his hand and skimming Jim's cheek, the hard-smooth surface of his nails making his skin tingle. That long, then.

_Well_, he says, mostly positive his voice is steady, _Whenever you're not too busy, then._

After a while, he kicks the two of them out, telling them to go do something productive. Bones gives his hand a parting clasp, warm and rough and firm, a familiar pattern of phalanges and metacarpals and calloused skin.

There is a shift in air current as the door closes behind him and then Spock is leaning over him, so close he can feel him without touching him. His hands slide up on either side of Jim's face, fingers brushing the edges of the bandages then leaving well alone, tilting his head up, angled just a little, and then his lips are touching Jim's.

Jim moans, low or high or loud or so soft no one can hear, god, he doesn't know. His hands slide over Spock's shoulders, gliding over tear-resistant Starfleet-issued cloth that was never really that tear-resistant. Smooth fabric and hot hot hot just beneath it. Muscles moving beneath his hands. He slides his hands up over the fabric onto skin, cupping the back of Spock's neck, soft short hair just brushing the backs of his fingers, tickling him.

He opens his mouth, letting in Spock's tongue, tasting him, the familiar wonderful special taste of him, copper and that awful tea-stuff and the after-affects of a sonic cleaning. Tasting like _his,_ like _Jim's. _Feels the edges of Spock's teeth, the rough-wet glide of his tongue, the eager flux of his lips. Warmth so hot he thinks it might burn him alive, and he's really just fine with that.

Spock pulls away from him slowly, letting him drop back down to the bed. Jim pants lightly for air. He lets his hands slide down Spock's arms, tracing the bend of his elbow and skimming lightly over the pulse in his wrists, linking their fingers together.

This close, hands held, he practically knows exactly what Spock would be saying if he's speaking at all. _You should rest, Jim._ And Jim would protest, but already he can feel himself drifting, slightly, and he isn't quite sure he can muster up the words. He is so _tired._

He lets Spock go, and after a moment, he is gone.

He wonders if, since he _feels_ so alone, it will be easier when he actually _is_ alone.

_No,_ He decides, as his skin slowly cools. He shivers. _Not really._

_

* * *

__You might as well just release me and let me go to my own quarters, Bones. _Jim says. _I'm pretty much fine now._ Which isn't true. _And I'm scaring your nurses. _Which is.

Jim can't help but tense up when the nurses come into check on him, not knowing who they are or what they were about to do. He does _not_ like them touching him.

He is sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, so he'll be able to feel the vibrations of someone entering. Bones is hovering around somewhere in front of him.

He guesses there is a lot of huffing and eye-rolling coming from Bones, but he must eventually agree, because a short while later there are familiar footsteps resonating through the floor and the _warmth-copper-home_ sensation he knows intimately is Spock. Long fingers wind through his and slowly he gets to his feet, standing steady and unsure. He lets Spock lead him across the room but untangles his fingers when they come to the door. He isn't going to let his crew see him clinging to his first officer, being dragged like a child. Like an invalid.

There is a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and he considers shrugging it off but lets it stay. The thin bones feel good there, steadying him just a little. He isn't sure how long he's been in the sickbay. Days, he supposes, but he has no way of knowing. Time is murky and ineffable.

It's a little like drowning at the bottom of a dark, deep lake.

Jim shakes himself mentally, steeling. Taking a deep breath, he steps out of the room.

He clings to the edge of the hall, dragging his fingers along the wall, steps growing more confident. Alright. This is alright. This is okay. This is _his ship_. He knows her in every way possible. He knows where he is going. He'll be fine.

A second later he's on his hands and knees amidst a clutter of whatever the hell he's just run into and knocked over. His heart is beating wildly, adrenaline flooding him and making him light-headed. He reaches out slowly with his hands, gropes along the floor until he comes to a tipped-over medical cart. Right. Okay.

There are hands on him and he twists out of them, pulling himself up to standing.

_I'm alright, _He says, wondering exactly how many people are staring at him right now. He flashes a smile that is probably more bared teeth than he'd been going for. _That took me weeks of practice._

He gets himself together. This is fine. He is fine. He's just tripped. He's always been clumsy like that.

Spock's familiar fingers rest on his arm, lightly, the offer clear. Jim draws in a deep breath that shudders harshly on its way out of him.

He pulls his arm away from Spock. _I'm okay_, He says, quieter. He gives a smile that doesn't stretch his muscles nearly as uncomfortably as that last one.

He can do this.

_Let's go._

_

* * *

_Jim is pretty sure he's dying. He's so damn _bored_.

He's managed to make it to his room without further incident (okay, with just a few further incidents) and. . . there's fuck all to do. He almost wishes he was back with the strange invisible nurses eager to poke and prod him. Almost.

He can't read or watch holovids or carry on a conversation or get some work done or do anything at the moment. He's _useless._

He flops back on the bed with a sigh, the blankets soft beneath him. He isn't sure exactly what the flash-bang that had blinded and deafened him has done besides the obvious, but he is still damn tired.

And he is still damn _scared_, not that he's going to say that out loud, or even think on it too much. Darkness thicker than night-time, than the freezing infinity of space, impenetrable darkness. And the _quiet_. Sometimes he's screaming inside his head and sometimes he thinks about screaming out loud, louder and louder and louder until he can finally hear himself and his throat is raw and he can't scream anymore. But if he does that they'll think he's crazy, they'll come and take him away and take his ship away from him and lock him up and he'll really, really be all alone. Of course, they might take his ship away from him anyways, leave him blind and deaf and flightless. Stranded.

And even now he is half-trapped in this room, and he has no idea what's going on with his ship, if there are any problems. They could be flying straight into a star, they could be under attack _right now_, and there'd be no way for him to know. There'd be _fuck all_ he could do.

He is lost here in the blackness and the goddamn silence and he can't fight his way out and there is nothing he can do and he's _alone _and he's drowning again, drowning in those dark and muffled waters and he _can't breathe. . ._

There are hands on him, suddenly, skimming lightly down his arms and then pulling him in close, in tight. A heartbeat thundering somewhere against his abdomen, steady breathing pushing a ribcage rhythmically against his own. He gasps for air, tangling his fingers in the shirt in front of him, pressing his cheek into the hard smooth chest, Starfleet fabric rubbing against his skin. Floundering, he struggles to match his breathing to Spock's. Distantly, a voice in his mind informs him that he's having a panic attack, but he tells it to shut the fuck up and just concentrates on the scent and feel of Spock wrapped around him. The fever-warmth of him and the faint hint of soap that clings to his skin.

He buries his face in the hollow of Spock's throat, panting harshly, the air dry on his tongue. His face is hot. His fingers twitch in their death-grip on Spock's shirt.

Finally, finally, when he is pretty sure he isn't about to hyperventilate and pass-out, he pulls himself up. Spock's grip loosens on him but doesn't let go.

_Hey, _Jim mutters. . . . _So, come here often?_

Spock traces down the contours of Jim's face with one finger.

The breath catches in Jim's throat in a way that's uncomfortably like a sob.

_I'm. . . I'm. . . happy you're here_, Jim whispers. Spock's hand turns, splaying his fingers over Jim's cheek.

Jim takes another choking breath and then he surges slowly upwards, twisting and pushing Spock back until the Vulcan is lying on the bed, Jim splayed over him. He drags his lips feather-light over Spock's jawline, seeking out his mouth. He finds it, and he can feel the little stuttering gasp Spock gives as he kisses him deeply, one of those almost-motionless, knock-down drag-out, breathe-life-into-me kisses. Emotional CPR.

Spock's hands slide down his back, Jim's skin shivering beneath the slow touch. The feel of fabric is not what he wants right now and he skates a hand up Spock's stomach, dragging his shirt up with it. Spock's own hands have grabbed the back of Jim's shirt and are tugging it upwards. There's a moment of awkwardness as they both try to unclothe each other at the same time, and then it smooths itself out in the best possible way, leaving both of them half-naked.

Jim urges Spock back down, wedges apart his legs with one knee and then another and settles there. Spock's thighs are pressed against his hips, he can feel the warmth but there's still two layers of fabric there and eventually he's going to have to do something about that. Not just yet, though, he decides, stroking the tips of his fingernails down Spock's breastbone, smiling as the skin shudders beneath the contact.

Jim can't see, but he can _feel._

He lets his fingers glide lightly over Spock's throat, feels him swallow harshly, seeks out his rapid-fire pulse. Lets them go further down, sliding outwards over each collarbone. Splays them over his chest, feels the hitch of his ribcage as his breath catches. Lets his thumbs graze over his nipples, feels them harden, his legs tightening around Jim. Wanders downwards, back and forth over every ribs, the hollow below his ribs, the hard muscles in his abdomen and his flat stomach.

And he can still _taste, _ and he bends down and retraces his steps with his tongue. Flicks it over a tightened nipple and then opens his mouth, exhaling warm air, swirling his tongue, biting down lightly. Lets his tongue fall and rise in the dips of his ribs, and just below the last rib he skates over to Spock's side and he bites, sucking in, revels in the taste and the feel and knows he leaves a mark even if he can't see it. He circles his tongue in Spock's navel and then traces it all the way down to the rough fabric edge of his trousers.

He tastes a little like soap, yes, but mostly he just tastes like Spock. Sharp and a little bitter and so smooth beneath his tongue.

And it's all too much for Jim and he pulls away from Spock's trembling skin, finds his mouth by touch and kisses him again, sweetly and begging for so much more. He wants, he _needs_ to feel Spock, all of Spock, feel his hands on him, feel him inside him. His throat is tight.

Spock seems to know exactly what he wants, what he needs, and pretty soon they're both naked. Spock's hands brush over the inside of Jim's thighs, around his hips, cupping him, pull him in closely. Jim can feel him hard and burning hot against him. He gives a full-body shudder as they touch, bucks his hips, digs his fingers into Spock's shoulders.

Spock guides him back onto the bed and kisses his jaw softly, and then there is sudden chillness as he steps away. He leaves Jim trembling and wanting on his back, and Jim reaches for him instinctively but there's nothing to grab. A half-second later and Spock is back, presses apologetic kisses down Jim's throat. His hand slips up Jim's flank, touches him hesitantly, and Jim whines low in his throat. His finger slides into him, and then another, preparing him with something cool and slick. Jim can feel his own breath running hotly over his tongue, can feel Spock's fluttering against his stomach.

Jim hooks his heels over Spock's shoulders, shifting forward, alternately begging and demanding with his fingertips.

And then Spock pushes into Jim slowly, oh, so damn slowly. And it's so much and it's so good and it hurts, just a little, just enough. The muscles in his neck strain as he tips his head back, squeezing his unseeing eyes shut tighter, opens his mouth and tastes the carefully regulated air of his ship.

Spock eases back out of him, just a little, and rocks forward again, finds a rhythm. And it's okay that there's nothing else, that he can't see and can't hear because all he needs is this feeling. Spock hot and pulsing and hard inside of him, pleasure blooming in his mind in waves.

Spock shifts and finds Jim's hand, presses their palms together and all there is wave on wave of happiness and love and it's like colours, almost, something bright and blue and cool in his mind, flashes of red, deep swatches of green and beacons of gold. It's like noise, like song, low melodious voices telling him everything would be alright. It's like everything and Jim can hardly breathe.

There is darkness and silence in this world of his, and he's there with Spock and he's _not alone_ and everything was going to be alright.

It's just this feeling, just this touch, just this taste, and this sharp bright smell of sex and nothing else, and it's about as close to perfect as he's ever been.

He comes with Spock, heat and wetness and staggering solace, every muscle in him taut.

Later, they lie next to each other, tired and happy. Jim traces Spock's face with his fingers, brows and the feathery brush of eye-lashes and the curves of cheeks and lips that part around his fingertips. Trying to memorize the feel of him, the shape of him, achieve some muscle-memory that'll never go away.

When he drifts into sleep, enfolded in warmth and the tart wonderful scent of Spock, he's not afraid of waking up beneath dark muted waters.

* * *

Jim wakes up, and someone's touching him. Familiar slender fingers, wandering across his back, between his shoulder blades. He smiles into his pillow.

The fingers continue to travel across his skin, and he pauses. His breath catches.

_J. _ Spock is writing on his palm with his fingertips. _I. M._

_I_

_L_

_O_

_V_

_E_

_Y_

_O_

_U_

_Yeah_, Jim says out-loud, but he's pretty sure his voice is breaking and he's not sure he's understandable. _I love you, too._

It's dark and it's quiet and it's alright.

* * *

**There once was a girl from Peru**

**Who'd really love it if you'd review**

**And Peru's not where I'm from**

**But if this didn't rhyme, it'd be dumb**

**So quit being so fucking picky.**


	18. Inborn, Snowdrift, Robbery

**Disclaimer: Aon.**

**Warnings: **

_**Inborn - **_**Language, sex, hints of some dark stuff. Jim/Gaila, Jim/Other, Jim/Bones. I will probably continue this at some point, cos I like the premise.  
**

_**Snowdrift - **_**Fluuuuufffffff. Jim/Spock.**

**_Robbery - _Violence, language, random-ass slightly cracky action/angst/humour/pointless fic. Jim/Bones friendship/pre-slash.**

**A/N: I have a livejournal now! Or rather, I'm putting stuff on the livejournal I've had for forever now! Link's in my profile, or saintdogstreet(dot)livejournal(dot)com. Good news, this means I can start putting up porny stxi fics for this series, so check for that, kay? **

**/shameless pimping.**

**

* * *

**_Inborn_

"James," Jim says to him one evening, just starting to get drunk. "Can also be a girl's name, you know."

She says it a little defensively and a little tiredly, like it's an argument she's had a thousand times before and one she knows she's never going to win.

Leonard hadn't known, as a matter of fact, but he figures he does now. You learn a lot of things, hanging out with Jim. Like how to cheat on physics exams, and the fact that bras can be taken off without ever removing two layers of shirts and a leather jacket, or how to make a cocktail that'll not only get you the drunkest you've ever been in your life but will make you see everything tinted in red for three days after.

Jim scrubs a hand at her scalp, messing up her dark blonde hair even worse, and takes another drink. Whatever she's drinking is powder blue and appears to be moving on its own, but after a while Leonard has learned not to ask, lest he be forced to try it.

"It can," Jim insists, though Leonard hasn't argued. "Swear it. Cross my heart and hope to whatever. Was my grandpa's name, anyways."

"Why didn't they just name you after your grandmama?" Leonard says.

Jim shakes her head, ends of her hair trailing through her drink, drawing grooves through the liquid and coming out the other end stained blue. "My dad said that naming me Electra was just wrong. And that kids would make fun of me if they called me Cornelia."

"And they didn't make fun of you for _James?" _

"Never twice."

* * *

The first time Leonard sees Jim, it's on the shuttle to nowhere. Everywhere. Away from home, at any rate.

It's bad enough that those Starfleet fascists have dragged him out of his bathroom sanctum, but then they have the indecency to sit him next to some hot blonde in leather. She looks uncomfortably like the exact opposite of his ex-wife. Leonard tries to ignore her steadily bruising face and the way her white t-shirt is mostly see-through, but he figures it's only right to warn her he might puke all over her.

Jim takes his potential vomit into stride and casually spends the whole trip keeping Leonard from freaking the fuck out. She doesn't seem to mind either when he starts going off about death and darkness and destruction and his ex-wife.

Jim runs a dark pink tongue over her perfect teeth when she makes eye-contact with some burly cadet, but other than that she just starts straightforwardly worming her way into Leonard's life.

He never really expected to see her again after that shuttle ride, but when she shows up at his dorm a week later and tells him they're going swimming, Leonard can't really seem to find a reason to say no.

* * *

Jim likes to say Gaila's name before they kiss, green lips and wet tongues and long slender fingers gripping each other's faces. Leonard tries to look away, but not very hard. He was raised not to be a liar, and damn but if the two of them checking one another's tonsils wasn't the hottest thing he's ever seen.

He clears his throat when Gaila slides out of her seat onto Jim's lap, slinging bare green legs over Jim's hips, but Jim just gives a little wave over Gaila's red curls and keeps moving her lips.

"I'll just go get some more drinks, shall I?" Leonard says, pushing back his chair.

Jim may come home with a different guy or girl every night but she always heads over to Gaila's in the morning.

Gaila loves her, it's easy enough for even him to see, a sweet kind of love that's deeper than friendship and burns hotter than sex, that Jim was completely oblivious to.

Sometimes Leonard wishes Jim would get a clue, if only so he doesn't have to pick his way over other people's underwear when walking through his dorm. Jim seems to view the academy roster as some sort of checklist.

The academy isn't always very warm to that fact, either, and being friends with Jim means Leonard learns more words for "whore" than he thought there were. His knuckles seem to be perpetually aching and he's starting to worry about getting written up.

Jim can take care of herself well enough, though, and fights dirty in ways Leonard has never even seen. Likes to fight, too, starting things in bars and outside of bars and everywhere. Jim has a knack for getting people to try and hit her.

And when she has bite marks on her neck and bruises on her wrists, she only ever winks at him.

* * *

"One of these days, that girl is going to realize she loves me," Jim says, watching the swish of Uhura's ponytail and the edge of her red hemline as she walked away.

Leonard shakes his head. "Not a chance."

"Just wait and see, Bones," Jim says confidently, tossing her head back to finish off her drink, throat pitching. "Wait and see."

* * *

Jim is Leonard's best friend, through everything, the one he yells about his ex-wife to and who his daughter calls Auntie. Who knows all his favourite foods and favourite drinks and has punched out men three times her size for taking a single angry step towards him. He doesn't mind the fifty shampoo bottles that clutter the shower or having to buy tampons at two in the morning or holding back her hair when she's worshiping her porcelain pantheon. He still won't let her paint his nails, no matter how many times she asks, though. And he likes the stacks of books Jim keeps in her room and how she'll show up like an apparition when he's ready to tell the whole world to go fuck itself.

And he's almost gotten used to her walking naked through their living room.

* * *

Jim thinks vices are things you collect, like postage stamps or action figures. She drinks too much and fights too much and fucks too much and is inordinately proud of it all.

Jim's too loud and too rough and just too everything, eyes hard and smile feral and words sharp. Trying too hard to fight in a world that isn't always fighting back. Always in survival mode, even when she's wearing her come-and-fuck-me smile. Too ready to run. Leonard doesn't really understand it, Jim's secrets and defensive mechanisms. Too walled-up. He doesn't know what turned her so thorny, what made her think people could only hurt.

Too dangerous. Sometimes all Leonard can think about when he looks at her is a cat, tail twitching slowly and ears flattened back.

Leonard loves her, but he doesn't really get her at all.

* * *

Jim's the smartest person in their class and sometimes it doesn't seem like she works for it all. She's perfectly aware of it, too, and doesn't mind rubbing it in with an arrogant smirk. Leonard wants to be jealous but all he ever does is ask her to proofread his theses.

Jim just lies back lazily while everyone studies, charges people for answers and fucks her professors when she's bored.

She and Gaila have sex over their quantum physics project and get an A+.

* * *

When Leonard walks in, Jim's legs are wrapped around some guy Leonard's seen maybe once or twice before around the academy. Sweat's darkening her long tangled hair and her tits are pressed up against the cadet's chest and his fingers are digging into the curves of her ass.

The guy grabs his clothes and races out of the dorm with a curse and Leonard just stands there. Tomorrow he'll probably be telling the world about screwing that slut Jim, how good he was and how much she wanted it.

Jim stumbles over his name as she waves him good-bye, doesn't bother telling him to call.

Leonard's looking at Jim and he wants to tell her it's all too much.

Jim just stares at him, naked, with her flint eyes. She doesn't bother to cover herself and Leonard doesn't know what to say.

"I know what you think of me, Bones," Jim says, she moves towards him on silent bare feet. Sweat winds its way around between her breasts. "You think I drink too much and sleep with all the wrong guys and that I'm in a rocket-powered car on the road to self-destruction, don't you?"

Leonard shakes his head. "No." _Yes._

"You've taken too many psych classes and you think I've got some fucked-up childhood that's made me into the way I am today," Jim takes a step closer. "That my mama didn't love me enough or my step-daddy loved me too much in all the wrong ways."

"No," _Yes. _Leonard takes a step back instinctively as Jim advances.

"Well, I've got news for you, Bones-y" Jim says, and she's a hairsbreadth away, smelling like sex and something clean buried under it all, something like peaches.

"I'm not broken," Jim says, and Leonard can feel her hot breath on his skin, his jaw, his throat."So quit trying to fucking fix me."

Jim's fingers are on the buttons of his shirt, pressing her naked skin against his clothes. Leonard's heart is hammering in his chest.

Jim kisses him, hard, teeth knocking against his and her mouth tastes like someone else's cum.

Leonard thinks he should push her away but all he can do is kiss back.

* * *

-xXO0OXx-

_Snowdrift_

"I can see no reason to participate in this "snowball fight," Jim," Spock says, twisting his mittened hands tighter together. He's hunched in on himself a little bit under his thick jacket, and looking thoroughly like a cat pulled from the bath in the cold weather.

"Aw, c'mon, Spock," Jim says, cheeks pink from the chill. "You can be on my team."

"What is the purpose of this exercise?" Spock asks, pulling his knit hat down lower over his ears.

"Winning," Jim says immediately. "Oh, all right. If I tell you it's for improving the cohesion of our crew and studying our combat methods, will you play?"

"No," Spock says. Jim pouts, snowflakes landing and melting on his lower lip.

"Please?"

"My answer has not changed."

"Pretty please?"

"It is inefficient for you to continue asking the same question and expecting a new response."

"I promise to warm you up afterwards."

Spock pauses. His feet grow colder in the snow. "No."

Jim sighs. "You're not any fun, anyone ever tell you that?"

"Yes," Spock nods. "They have."

"Fine," Jim says. "I suppose you just want to go inside and sit too close to the fire and drink some hot cocoa, then?"

"That would be agreeable," Spock says.

Jim sighs again, silver fog of breath floating up in the air. "Oh, all right. Come look at the snowman I made you, then, and we can go and spend the rest of a perfectly wonderful snow day _indoors. _Like some kind of heathens."

Spock lets Jim tug him by his puffy jacket, past rows of lanky bare-limbed trees covered in shining snow, to his lumpy white mound of snowman. It has pointed ears.

"See?" Jim demands, and Spock nods. "And you wanted to go inside and miss all this impressive artistry."

"It would have been my misfortune," Spock says, cocking his head at the snowvulcan. It appears to have an eyebrow raised.

"I ate the carrot," Jim says, tugging his scarf off the snowvulcan's neck and dusting off the snow clinging to it, wrapping it around his own. "Otherwise it would've been really impressive."

"I'm sure," Spock agrees.

"Okay, I wanna get you drunk on hot chocolate now," Jim says, grabbing one of Spock's wool-covered hands. "Besides, we should go in before Sulu and Chekov find us and stick snow down our shirts."

"And why would Mr. Chekov and Lt. Sulu do that?" Spock asks, boots crunching on the snow as he follows Jim.

"They may or may not be getting revenge on me for something I may or may not have done to them earlier involving lots of snow and a certain amount of nudity," Jim says, shrugging. Snowflakes are dusting his cap and coating his shoulders with white, and when Spock brushes them off more just take their place. The snowfall's picked up.

"Of course," Spock says.

"Hey," Jim says, pulling them both to a halt next to a copse of evergreen trees. Their footprints have scraped bare the grass and it springs up reluctantly behind them, brittle and bright with frost. Snow lies in piles around them like frozen sea waves, coating the hills and muffling the world. "My lips are cold."

He waggles his eyebrows at Spock. Spock resolutely doesn't smile.

"That is unfortunate," Spock says instead, letting his free hand, the one not tight in Jim's, drift to Jim's shoulder.

"I know," Jim nods, teeth glinting in a wide grin. There's snowflakes on his eyelashes. "Wanna do something about it?"

"I suppose I should- " Spock begins, but at that moment Jim runs out of patience and the rest of his words are lost.

The snow falls quietly around them.

* * *

-xXO0OXx-

_Robbery_

The worst part about coming home to an empty flat is finding out that it's not empty.

Jim freezes just inside the doorway, arms full of groceries. Soft bread with thick flaky crust and dry noodles and tomatoes and garlic and ground beef. Jim can't cook much of anything, but he's always been able to manage a mean spaghetti. There's an apple clenched in his teeth, freeing up his hand just enough to type in the access code to the place he and Bones are sharing that semester. Bones always tells him it's rude to start eating produce in the grocers', and it's not as much fun to do when he's not there to see, but Jim had been hungry.

Less pressing than the spaghetti, though, no matter how good Jim's recipe was (he liked to add onions and capers and a splash of olive oil), is the asshole rather enthusiastically trying to yank their view screen off the wall.

The man jerks his head around as Jim comes in, letting go of the edges of the view screen and glaring at him with narrowed eyes, like Jim's the one doing something wrong and he should feel_ ashamed _of himself.

Jim's already letting the bag of groceries drop to the floor (dammit, his bread's probably being squished) and pulling the apple out of his mouth, putting his hands up in a fighter's stance, when the guy charges towards him.

There's not a hell of a lot of room to move in the narrow hallway, though, and the bastard's probably got three inches and a hundred pounds on Jim. Jim snaps his front leg out in a high kick that catches the man under the chin, snapping his head back, but it only pauses him for a split-second and he keeps coming. He crashes into Jim with all the delicacy of the meteor that killed all the dinosaurs.

Jim feels the back of his skull slam against the door and all the breath rush out of his lungs. There's a burst of pyrotechnics in his field of vision and his head swims and then he's slamming a knee up into the warm heavy body crushing him.

He follows it up with a uppercut, driving his fist just beneath the sticky-fingered sonofabitch's ribcage, because the first thing you learn is you never stop at one hit. He hears the man choke and gasp, and it's enough to shove him off of him.

The bastard's not down and out, yet, though, and he blocks the punch Jim was aiming at his face. Jim ducks below the wild hay-maker the guy swings at him, comes back up with one, two punches. They both connect but the motherfucker's still not going down.

Jim's got enough distance now to deliver a high kick to the side of the guy's head, coming down on the same foot and using his momentum to give a spinning kick with the opposite leg.

He reckons that there's no way in hell this guy's completely human, because he charges at Jim again, ignoring the punch that comes his way and managing to grip Jim by the shoulders. He spins Jim around, smacking his back into the wall, pinning him there.

He pulls Jim forward a bit than smashes him back, again, and again, Jim's head crashing against the wall. A framed picture rattles on its hook near his right ear than falls to the floor. It's one of Joanna's, he knows, and now, Jim is _pissed._

The burglar lets go of him with one hand and draws it back, punching Jim in the face. He feels his lip split. Again, and he thinks his nose might be broken. Again, and all he can taste is his own blood and the world is spinning.

_"Hey!"_ Someone pounds on the wall in the neighboring flat. _"Keep it down in there, Kirk!"_

There is laughter, and Jim thinks he catches the words _"love machine," _and right, while he's happy his reputation's spread so much it'd also be really great if his neighbors called 911.

Another punch, and the world darkens, and it occurs to Jim that it'll be really pathetic if he dies here, right now, makes Bones come home to spilled pasta ingredients and his cold dead bloody body on the floor.

Jim's knee drives into the man's groin. The punch the guy had been aiming misses, slams into the wall next to Jim's face instead, and he can hear the plaster crumple. He feels the sonofabitch start to double over and his grip slackens on Jim's shoulder. He claws at the man's face, not sure he has enough power in him to do much more. But he doesn't need power to go for the soft, weak spots like the eyes.

The man screams and draws back as Jim's fingernails scratch at his eyes. Jim shoves him away, stumbling on the scattered mess of groceries scattered across the floor. He catches himself from falling and regains his balance, drawing his fists up.

The man snarls at him, face bleeding from long thin scratches. He throws a punch and Jim parries with an open hand, counters with a punch of his own, another, a kick, and then they're just a flurry of traded blows.

It goes on, and Jim can feel his head swimming. He's lightning-quick on pure adrenaline, but things are blurring. The bastard drove his head into the wall more time than he can remember clearly right now.

His hits are getting slower than he'd like, his blocks even more troublesome, and eventually, the guy catches him under the chin with a blow that sends him reeling and falling to the ground.

The thief follows him down, using his body weight to slam Jim into the floor and keep him there. Then he's on top of Jim, and Jim's trying to draw himself up but the weight's too much and the angle's giving him nothing to work with. One of his hands skates across the floor, groping the carpet, and his fingers knock against something curved and cold. He reaches for it, fingers scrambling, manages to grab it just as the fucker punches him again.

He brings the improvised weapon up and smashes it against the man's skull. The glass shatters.

The guy sways, his eyes roll, and then he crumples, dead weight against Jim.

Jim lets his hand drop and just lays there for a moment, panting for air. He's covered in something cold and wet and sticky. He sniffs.

Spaghetti sauce. Dammit.

Jim heaves the guy off of him and rolls slowly to his feet. The man doesn't move. He's still holding the remains of the jar of red sauce that he slammed into the man's head, glass edges nicking him. He lets it drop, still trying to get his bearings. He's pretty sure he's used up the last of his adrenaline.

The hallway is trashed, trampled foodstuff ground into the floor and holes in the wall. At least one of which is from Jim's head, he knows, and winces, rubbing the back of his skull gingerly. He's pretty sure the asshole managed to break the view screen, too. And the unconscious body lying on the floor sure isn't helping the decor.

At least, Jim hopes he's unconscious. The guy still isn't moving, which is a good thing, but now Jim's worried that he might not be breathing, either. Which isn't good at all. He drops to a crouch beside him, eyes fogging up with darkness for a moment. Jim blinks and shakes his head, which doesn't help any.

He nudges the guy. No response.

"Aw, shit," Jim moans, scrubbing a hand down his face. He should do CPR. Right. Or something. The world tilts alarmingly to the left, all of a sudden.

Dammit, he just wanted to go home, have a nice, quiet evening in, cook dinner, hang out with his best friend. . . _Bones._ He should really call Bones.

Jim has some trouble remembering the numbers for a bit that reminds himself that he can just hit speed-dial. It rings. And rings.

"_What?"_ A gruff voice snaps, which is weird, because Jim can still hear the phone ringing. Or something ringing. Maybe that's just his head.

_". . . Jim?"_ Bones asks, amazingly, because Bones isn't even _here_ right now, there's just a dead guy here, but Jim can still hear Bones talking, which is _crazy_.

"Bones!" Jim figures out. "I can hear you."

_"Jim? What's going on? Are you drunk-dialing me again?"_

Jim isn't drunk. That's just not fair. "No, Bones, I'm not. Don't be presumptuous. You'll make an ass out of pre and. . . sumptu. I'm not drunk. I need. . ." What did Jim need again?

_"Jim?"_ Bones asks, again, which is pointless because Jim already _knows_ that's his name. _"What's wrong? Are you okay?"_

"Bones," Jim says, and now his voice has dropped, gone cold, because, _oh god,_ "I think I killed a guy."

_"What?"_

"He's dead, Bones." Jim says, and now he's skittering away from the body, face-down and covered in lumpy red sauce. "He's dead and I killed him and he won't move."

_"Shit. What. . . Where are you, Jim?"_

"I'm home, Bones. I'm home and I was going to make dinner, I was just going to make dinner, oh, _god._" Jim's back is against the wall now, he can't go any further.

_"Okay, okay. Stay right there, I'm coming. Do you hear me, Jim? Stay there." _ Jim can hear movement through the line.

_"Jim!"_ Bones snaps, and he sounds angry.

"I'm sorry," Jim breathes out, still unable to take his eyes away from the body.

_"Dammit, don't. . . Just, did you hear me, Jim? Stay there, okay? Don't move. I'm coming."_

Jim's not going to move. The dead body's not going to move. Nobody's going to move for a long time.

_"Let me know that you heard me, Jim. _Please._ Talk to me."_

Jim shakes himself. "I heard you, Bones."

_"Okay, okay. Good. I have to get off the line, but I'll be there, Jim. Okay? I'll be right there. It's okay."_

It's not.

"Alright," Jim says quietly.

Bones exhales. _"Good."_

The line goes dead.

A while passes, and things go a little fuzzy for a bit and Jim thinks he might have blacked out, just a touch. But maybe not.

It's quiet and the air smells like Italian food and Jim realizes dinner's a total wash by this point. They'll probably just order in.

Then the door slides open and there are quick hurried footsteps and Jim squints up at Bones.

"Hey," he says.

"Dammit, Jim," Bones responds, which is really a lousy greeting, when you think about it. The doctor drops down to a crouch next to him, waving his little magical medical wand thing that Jim can't remember the name of right now in his face.

"Bones," Jim protests mildly, shoving the magic fairy doctor wand away. "You're supposed to be looking at the dead guy. That's why I called you. He's dead, you know."

"Shut up, Jim," Bones says, and he shines a light in Jim's eyes. "Christ, your pupils. . . How many fingers am I holding up?"

He shoves a hand in Jim's face. Jim considers.

"Well, I'd _tell_ you if you'd just _hold still_," Jim complains, batting at the hand. Hands?

"Shit," Bones swears. "You have a concussion, moron. And I think you're going into shock."

"Oh," Jim says. "Well. That isn't good, is it?"

"No," Bones rolls his eyes, wiping a little at some of the dried blood on Jim's face before giving up. "Not so much."

"Bones," Jim reminds. "Dead guy. Over there. Still dead."

Bones sighs. "I really need to get you to a hospital."

"And call the police," Jim adds helpfully. "That's what you're supposed to do when you kill people, call the police. Or are you supposed to hide the bodies. . .? Whichever."

Jim shrugs. It was hard to remember the correct protocol for committing homicide at times like this.

Bones sighs again, rubbing at his jaw. He glances at the body, squints, and then scoots over to it. Laying two fingers against the man's neck, he checks his pulse.

The man moans.

"Christ!" Bones yelps, jumping back. "He's not dead, Jim!"

"Oh," Jim says. He cocks his head to the side and studies the man. "Well, that's a relief."

The man twitches, rolling over a bit. He moans again.

It occurs to Jim that the guy will probably be neither calm nor reasonable by the time he gets to his feet. If past behaviour is any indicator, in fact, he'll probably try to beat the both of them to death, really.

"Fuck, Bones," Jim says. "We're going to need more spaghetti sauce."

Bones shoots Jim a worried glance.

"Sir," he says, reaching out a hand to touch the man on the shoulder and than changing his mind, letting his hand drop. "Sir, can you hear me? I'm a doctor."

"He tried to steal our view screen," Jim points out. "I'm not really sure he deserves to be called 'sir.' Not usually high-class gentlemen, view screen-stealers, are they?"

Bones ignores him. He makes a move to go to the slowly-waking man and Jim grabs him, pulling him back.

"Wha-" Bones begins, annoyed.

"Don't touch him!" Jim urges. "Bones, he's _dangerous._ He tried to steal our view screen and he ruined dinner and he attempted to murder me."

"I'm a doctor, Jim," Bones says, patiently. Well, not really.

"Well, haven't you got one of your magic pokey knock-out popper things?" Jim suggests.

"A hypo?" Bones asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Isn't that what I said?" Jim demands. "Put him out again?"

"I don't really think I can, with a head-injury like that," Bones says.

Jim glances at the man, whose eyes are mostly open now. They're flickering weakly back and forth beneath heavy lids. His fingers twitch angrily. "Well, you better think of something quick, he's almost up, now. And he's going to be pissed, wondering why he's all covered in delicious roasted-garlic red sauce."

"I think he's going to be pissed about a lot more than that," Bones says, pulling out of Jim's grip and crawling towards the man.

"Get him with the red onion," Jim advises. "Lots of heft in that one."

"I'm not going to hit him over the head again, Jim. I did take this oath, once, you know." He waves his special inform-y wand over the guy.

Jim sighs. _Doctors_. Always playing God and refusing to bash people over their skulls with vegetables. "Well, are you at least going to call the police?"

"Ah," Bones stops. "Well, yes, that would probably be a good idea."

Jim snorts. "It's terrible that _I'm_ the one thinking clearly in this situation. I have a concussion, you know. And I just killed a man."

"He's not actually dead," Bones argues, pulling out his phone.

"Semantics," Jim waves a hand dismissively. "And he's all the way awake, now, I think."

Bones snaps his head back around. The would-be burglar is bemusedly wiping spaghetti sauce off of his face, staring at his sticky and tasty fingers angrily. "Oh, right. Shit."

"Considering my plan now, aren't you?" Jim says. "The red onion."

"No, I -" Bones freezes. The man has got his hands under him, now, pulling himself up to his knees. He's growling low in his throat, glaring at the two of them, eyes narrowed to furious slits. "Jim, I'm thinking we should run."

"Fantastic," Jim agrees. "You go thattaway, and I'll. . . sort of sit here on the floor a bit more. Bones, I don't think I can move."

"Shit," Bones says again. He grabs Jim's arm, standing up and trying to drag Jim with him. Jim is, admittedly, not very helpful at this point. He groans as his brain rams enthusiastically against the inside of his skull.

"Dammit, Jim, come on, get up." Bones tugs at his arm.

"Alright, alright," Jim says, back sliding against the wall as he struggles to his feet. "I'm up. Oh, shit."

The thief has managed to get to his feet at the same time as Jim, swaying a bit but still hulking and menacing and furious.

"What did you do to my head, you fucking cocksuckers?" The man snarls, holding a hand to his temple, sauce and blood staining his fingers.

Jim's a bit put-out by the question. The man tries to steal their view screen and he has the _gall_ to question their home security system? "We were attempting brain surgery, asshole, but we didn't have a lot to work with."

Bones groans.

The thief growls again, and then he's barreling forward. Jim shoves himself off the wall and flings himself in front of Bones. He meets the guy head-on and they crash together like particles in an accelerator. The resulting nuclear explosion leaves Jim flat on his ass with the would-be burglar on-top of him in a familiar manner.

Jim grapples with him, head pounding in a manner that may or may not be in the rhythm of a Bon Jovi song, and manages to drive a knee into a perfectly uncomfortable place. The second-rate thief makes a noise somewhere between an engine breaking down and a violin being run over. His hands are bruising Jim's shoulders and with his weight on him Jim can hardly breathe.

There's a resounding crack and for the second time that night the thief's body jerks and collapses, dead weight, on top of him.

Jim pants for a moment and then pushes him off of him, looking past the pulsing grey blotches spotting his vision.

Bones is standing there, tricorder (damn, so that's what those things were called) in one hand. It looks a little bloody.

"Dude," Jim says, "You totally broke an oath with that one."

Then he passes out.

* * *

". . . So then I called the police," Bones says, twisting chow mein around his fork. "Which is what you should've done in the first place."

Jim shakes his head and then winces, bringing a hand up to the white bandages wrapped around his forehead. "Where's the fun in that?"

"The fun is in the absence of head-injuries, you moron," Bones says, snagging one of Jim's fried prawns. Jim bats at him ineffectually with a chopstick.

"Yeah, but this way, we're heroes, Bones," Jim says. He stretches back comfortably on the couch. The view screen is a little crooked on the wall but the picture is clear.

Bones snorts. "Oh, yeah, heroes. Somebody give me a cape and send me on my way."

"You could totally rock a cape," Jim approves. He dumps more soy sauce into his carton and stirs it up.

"Next time, just try not to get your head broken, alright?" Bones says with a sigh. He steals another prawn and Jim grabs a bite of his noodles in revenge.

He nods and regrets it. "Deal. Howabout we get some new locks, too?"

"Eh," Bones shrugs. "Locks are expensive. With your head, we haven't got a lot to lose."

"Hey," Jim says, pouting. "Don't make fun of the injured party."

"Don't get injured again," Bones counters.

"Fine, fine," Jim waves a hand dismissively. "Whatever. Pass the mushu."

"Fine," Bones agrees, grumbling a little. "Though I still want my home-cooked meal, you know."

"Protecting our household just isn't enough for you?'

"No."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"_Fine."_

"Shut up and eat your take-out."

* * *

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